


If Baker Street Could Talk

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Blind Date, Developing Relationship, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Pianist Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Widower John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: There is a very thin wall between 221b and 221c.As if by fate, it has separated two sitting rooms that now almost morph back into one. One sitting room belongs to Sherlock Holmes (43), a pianist; and the other one to Dr John H. Watson (45), whatever he might be after everything. Theoretically, John's a war hero, an ex-surgeon, a widower, and he’s telling everyone that he develops a game which might take a lifetime.There is a wall between them, but they cannot be separated.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Stella Hopkins, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 151
Kudos: 125





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to "If Baker Street Could Talk"!
> 
> Today marks the 10th anniversary of "A Study in Pink". While the show, as well as the fandom, cannot claim to be perfect, they are important parts of our lives. So: raise a glass (of a beverage of your choice) to them and us! And maybe, hopefully, enjoy the story I've brought as a gift. 
> 
> Before you dive into reading, some quick information:
> 
> I'm lucky to have two betas, elldotsee and wildishmazz. The gorgeous graphic is made by my-name-is-stephen-strange (https://the-name-is-stephen-strange.tumblr.com/post/618861599762087936/happy-sherlock-holmes-day). You can apparently watch the movie ("Blind Date") this fic is inspired by on Netflix, however, you don't need any information to follow the plot.
> 
> Let's see how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fell in love here, shall we?
> 
> Happy #10YearsOfSherlock!

Sherlock Holmes, an acclaimed pianist, moves into 221b Baker Street on a Friday.

It’s Friday the 13th, but Sherlock isn’t superstitious. He might even call thirteen his lucky number from now on because he is finally out of reach of his overbearing brother. The new flat might be in Westminster and therefore not far away from Mycroft’s office, but as his brother detests legwork, Sherlock hopes that he’s safe.

The weather is applauding his choice in bravado, as the sun is shining but not as hot as the spotlight on most stages. Sherlock feared for a rainy day, and not only because of the many boxes of sheet music. Frankly, his poor piano cannot cope with humidity and don’t get him started on his curls. 

The pavement is blocked with the moving van and lots of boxes. Apparently, in 43 years on this planet earth, one can collect a lot of memorabilia. Other people — predominantly his brother — would insist that he should straighten up the mess prior, but Sherlock Holmes isn’t the Marie Kondo-type. All that sparks joy to him is the world of music, and thanks to his new home, it will all that matters at last.

Few people gather around, watching the unpacking process. Sherlock assumes that most of them are tourists, wondering from where they know his face. Londoners are probably only envious that he could afford such a prime spot. He cannot care less, so long they keep their hands off his piano.

His new landlady opens the door. Her name is Mrs Hudson. Quickly, she ushers him and the movers inside. She’s an elderly woman, wearing an apron as if she’s just come from the kitchen. However, Sherlock is pretty confident that it’s a front: she hasn’t been checking the oven, she’s had her eyes on the street. After all: they didn’t even need to ring the bell.

“Welcome, Mr Holmes, come in, come in…”

“It’s Sherlock, please.” 

And his smile isn’t forced for once. It’s unusual motion as well as feeling, but not altogether unpleasant. He feels his shoulder drop more with each of the seventeen steps up to his new flat. When he turns the key and enters 221b as the rightful tenant for the first time, he almost wants to waltz. _Welcome home_ , it seems to whisper. 

“You sit down and relax. Drink a cup of tea and eat some biscuits.” 

Mrs Hudson has followed him. She points at the chair in the living room, possibly a real _Le Corbusier,_ in no unquestionable terms. It looks hand-picked for him, and suddenly, Sherlock realises that yes, he is indeed a bit tired. 

Moving is never easy; it’s stressful even for normal people, and his departure, as well as the final decision prior, weren’t exactly running smoothly. An Earl Grey with a splash of milk and two cubes of sugar would sweep away Mycroft’s disapproval for an intermediate time. Sherlock lets himself drop into the chair. 

Mrs Hudson proves to be a saint further by overlooking the moving process. Her directions are followed by the movers; she allows no dilly-dally and no chit-chat. Whenever they have questions, they go for her first. 

It should be terrifying that an unassuming lady can mind-read his thoughts, but Sherlock’s too beat to care. It’s internally possible that he had been so excited when he first looked at the flat that he had slipped more than he had thought. Maybe tomorrow he’ll freak out, or not. Surprisingly, he’s not all-too-concerned.

When the movers — paid by Mycroft, but that’s a minor detail — try to charge him extra for bringing his piano up the stairs, she irons it out for him: “It’s in the contract, you can read, can’t you?” Martha Hudson is polite upfront, but she is stern. The movers almost ran out of 221b!

On her way out, Mrs Hudson mentions something about a third flat and a thin wall, but Sherlock deletes it immediately. Who cares about 221c and if someone lives there or not? He closes the door with a little bit more force than necessary behind them all.

Silence is bliss, QED.

Three hours later, 221b Baker Street looks like a bomb site, but Sherlock Holmes feels like a phoenix rising from the ashes. For a second, he toys with the idea of properly christening the flat, but he’s no idiot: he knows that his piano needs time to acclimatise.

His piano is from John Broadwood & Sons, London and has been in the Holmes family for generations. Sherlock inherited the piano from his uncle Rudy, who had inherited it from his mother, a French woman called Violet Vernet, whom Sherlock has never had the pleasure of meeting, but has heard great things about. Both relatives loved to scandalise the family, and sometimes Mycroft insinuates that Sherlock inherited not only the instrument from them.

So maybe it shouldn't be surprising that the same thrill remains as if the music is whispering: _Can you feel the blood pumping through your veins? Feels good, doesn't it?_ When Sherlock Holmes plays his beloved instrument, it is, as if it’s just the two of them against the rest of the world.

A recording of one of his acclaimed performances, however, will not go amiss. Before he moved in, he checked the acoustics; now he turns the stereo up, full volume.

It’s getting late.

A thunderstorm announces a change of weather. There was probably some announcement on the weather forecast but Sherlock always tunes out the radio whenever the news airs. His world is classical music, as is right and proper for a pianist; who cares about anything else?

Of course, Sherlock could have switched to streaming permanently, but he relishes correcting the journalists in their musical judgement too much. Of course, they can’t hear him – Sherlock is no idiot — but he feels better afterwards, and in a way, it’s a conversation, isn’t it? And a delightful one, in which no one talks back and he’s the real expert. Mycroft has never been a fan, but that was to be expected.

Sherlock shakes off the memories and rushes in the living room to close the windows. Surely, it’s the approaching thunder or something. Weather lightning or some other nonsense that he has been taught in school but had deleted immediately as his mind could not be cluttered.

Then, he hears the noise. It rattles him. Yet, he tries to calm himself.

His eyes flicker over the room.

Is the painting over the couch moving? It’s a rather lovely one, an old ship, and even it doesn’t fit the slightly Victorian touch of 221b, Sherlock had been drawn by it like a moth to a flame. When he had first spotted it, he had been ready to blurt out that he had wanted to be a pirate before becoming a pianist as a young boy to Mrs Hudson.

For a second Sherlock isn’t convinced if the skull above the fireplace isn’t glowing, too.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is a rational man, all grown-up. And yet, he puts on his Belstaff and his blue scarf hurriedly, flags down a cab and rushes back to his big brother’s house in Pall Mall.

It’s one of those that come with an entire entourage of the personnel because the inhabitants are too busy to barely live in it. When he was younger, Sherlock hadn’t been sure if Anthea wasn’t secretly Mycroft's girlfriend or even wife because of her constant presence. Two smartphones and his umbrella would surely make not the oddest of offsprings imaginable.

“That didn’t take long, brother dear…”

His brother greets him, all-smiling bastard, pretentious know-it-all. It's half-past nine, and Mycroft Holmes is still wearing his suit. Lawyers, in particular Mycroft, seem to be bred for the job. Minor position in a law firm, or so he claims. 

Already the smell in the entrance puts Sherlock on edge; as if Mycroft has a special deal with some air refreshing company. He never knows if his brother is just obsessed with hygiene, cannot stand his odour, or prefers to mess with him.

“I’ve just locked myself out…”

It’s a lie, and Mycroft sees through it. He, as well as being the older brother, is also the smart one. Mycroft loves to rub it in, always has. When they were young, he had a sing-song litany intoning _Be reasonable, Sherlock_ or _Grow up, Sherlock_ or _You know how it upsets Mummy_.

Tonight is no different: “If you say so, Sherlock… regardless, your room is ready. It’s the same as you left it… yesterday.”

“It’s just for one night, Mycroft. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You won’t even realise that I’m here.”

It might be a setback to that Sherlock can agree but small steps, right? He has his place now, and tomorrow is a new day, and he made it ten hours on his own. That has to count for something. 

Sherlock curls himself in a foetal position on the leather sofa, wishing that he had brought the knitted blanket by Mrs Hudson with him. A housewarming gift, or so she has claimed with her all-knowing smile. It’s an old thing, the colour an unspecified grey, but cosy. Sadly, he had put it into his bedroom in 221b. Sherlock doesn’t freeze easily but some nights he needs the extra weight.

Until sleep catches up with him, he repeats the mantra in his head: _You haven’t failed_. His last conscious thought is the echo, _not yet._

* * *

It's Saturday evening and a concerned friend visits his best mate.

The best mate’s name is John Watson – Dr John H. Watson, actually — but it’s been seven years and for him, it feels like another lifetime. This John has lived in 221c since he returned to London, and he has no intention of moving ever again.

Mostly, he doesn’t like to even leave his flat. Which is why his friend, Greg Lestrade – Gregory Lestrade, a police officer at the New Scotland Yard – has to visit him in Baker Street, and preferably for John, shop for him too? Not all shops deliver yet. It’s almost unheard of in this day and age, but John has checked and pleaded and almost bullied one shop owner to no avail, they were stubborn – God knows why.

His flat is plain, rarely any personal items. It’s shades of beige, and on bad days, he believes that the shadows on the walls are ghosts from the desert. When he moved in, everything fitted into one bag. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t allowed him to use the furniture, he couldn’t say if he hadn’t even found his way to the nearest IKEA. Not even his smartphone is his, it’s a handover by Harry, an old gift for Clara, her ex-wife. 

On better days he muses that the only things besides clothes that are his are his wedding ring and his gun, and isn’t that John Watson in a nutshell.

John doesn’t have anger issues — no matter what his therapist, a lovely woman called Ella, claimed — he is simply not good with people, full stop.

Greg, he can tolerate in small doses. At least, when he isn’t his overbearing cheering self, all grinning and so annoying.

“Have you meet anyone? Women, men, a cat?”

“Funny, Greg…”

Good old Greg has brought the groceries and Indian take-away, the beer is chilled, and there are some chocolate cookies hidden in the bag.

And yet? Is it worth it when his friend of God-knows-how-long doesn’t get the message? John had considered getting a tattoo when he had been truly pissed —drunk and angry, bad combination, John can see it now— that states the obvious: "Shut up, leave me alone", if necessary, even some pseudo poetic shit like “alone is what I have”.

“So, did you or did you not?”

“A woman called me on Thursday. She dialled the wrong number.”

TBC


	2. A Strange Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voice of the new neighbour sounds like porn in his ears, but John’s sex life died with Mary. Therefore, John barks: “Look, we have a bad soundproofing problem. And forget the management. It’s not the same building. Nor the same district.”
> 
> Actually, John has been suspicious about Mrs Hudson’s statement since he moved in, however, back then he had been too deep in mourning and nowadays, he simply doesn’t bother to fact-check.
> 
> It’s the easiest way: scare away anyone who moves into 221B. This stranger will leave soon too.
> 
> "Surely, there has to be a solution..."
> 
> "Don't get too comfortable. You'll crack before you unpack."

Sherlock returns to 221b the next day. Mrs Hudson welcomes him as if he’s the prodigal son. It’s a bit too much, and Sherlock wants to bristle, yet he is oddly touched somehow.

She smells of freshly baked cake, and he is easily persuaded to take a piece with him upstairs.

“But only this once, mind you. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, young man.”

Her eyes crinkle, and she reminds Sherlock so much of his mother of better days that he wants to scoff, but instead offers to make tea for them both.

Minutes later, standing in his kitchen, it dawns on him that it’s going to be a total disaster as he has no idea how to put on the kettle. It should be easy, elementary even! Sherlock feels the lump in his throat forming — maybe Mycroft has been right?

A warm hand covers his cold one. “Let me make the tea.”

A beat of silence as if Mrs Hudson is giving him a chance to recoil. Since when are people so considerate towards him? Normally, they call him names and demand that he grow up. Then he ought to run away like a wounded animal. He would not be hurt because he’s a cold fish (“a high-functioning sociopath — do your research!”). Sherlock Holmes, forever drama queen. 

Oh, she’s still talking.

“You sit down. Read today’s newspaper. There’s a nice review of Sebastian Wilkes’ concert last weekend. A toddler recital is superior to his improvisation. I bought the newspaper on a whim when I read the headline. I thought you might appreciate it. Or pick up your violin if you like.”

Sherlock is transformed into a puppet and Mrs Hudson is the puppeteer, that’s the only logical solution, as he feels the soft cushion in his back. He doesn’t recall his chair having a cushion when moving in… yesterday!

There’s clatter in the background. Sherlock could deduce its origins but he’s bone-deep tired suddenly. Mrs Hudson is humming of tune, and Sherlock grins unintentionally as he senses correctly that she’s doing on purpose. The kettle is whistling from afar. The outside noise is zooming out. Gradually, Sherlock’s mind clears. The sunbeams are dancing on the carpet. He follows the pattern of the Victorian wallpaper, it’s never-ending, and somehow that’s soothing.

Sherlock contemplates whether he should pin some of his original music on the wall. Over the last couple of months, he had picked up composing once more. It’s something he had abandoned after a snide remark by a fellow student: “Oh, Sherly, you’re such a dreamer. Why write your songs? Ought you not perfect your classical training first? You’ve over-played Chopin again, and as he’s the pure drama that’s an accomplishment.” Maybe Sherlock should put on Sebastian Wilkes’ post-it instead: "No more sodding Chopin, Sherlock."

“Here you are.”

Sherlock almost drops the offered teacup to the floor.

Mrs Hudson smiles. She caught the cup, her reactions exceptional for her age. 

Soon, they indulge in Earl Grey tea with a splash of milk and delicious cake in silence. There is no hiding from her because of his fondness for sweets. She doesn’t count the sugar cubes in his cup. There appears another slice of cake on his plate without complaining or even asking.

He blurts it out then, mumbling and retelling last night’s events, making no sense. Sherlock insists that a ghost is a figure from a child’s tale. “There is no such thing as a ghost, Mrs Hudson!” His voice is not wavering or raising, or so he tries to tell himself.

“There’s more between…”

“Mrs Hudson,” he interrupts her, “don’t quote Shakespeare. This isn’t the time for fiction, it’s about science. There ought to be a difference between poetry and truth.”

“If you say so…” She winks at him. It’s insufferable. “Baker Street has a history, however, we have all sort of around here, in 221c, for example,…”

Before she can ramble further, Sherlock compliments her out of 221b.

“What a lovely tale, Mrs Hudson! Thank you for the tea. Haven’t you got a date with Mr Doyle? He’s already married, but no one knows about it, except me. His wife lives in Hampstead. Never marry straight after school, it will never last. Of course, she was pregnant and it was the 1960s.”

He is baffled and slightly put off when she shuts his door with a bang.

* * *

John Watson hears the bang, it wakes him.

In a heartbeat, he’s back into his war zone.

John tries to remember Ella’s advice but all is void.

The scream, the crash, the noise, the smell, oh God, the smell of blood, too much blood, everything is red, it’s too much, everything is too much.

“I’m sorry, John.” Mike Stamford’s voice forever on a loop. Never returned his calls. They might have been to medical school together, but if two sodding doctors cannot save Mary what is there to talk about? All is said, all is done, everything is over. “I’m sorry, John," Mike said.

John isn’t sorry when he crashes the glass from his bedside table on the floor of 221c now.

There’s a tremor in his hand. It’s his dominant hand, what an irony! “You will never stand in a surgery again”, his therapist had said to him as if he would ever practice again. “I’m sorry, John," Ella said.

The alcohol sinks into the carpet, John should mop it up before it stains the carpet forever. It’s cheap booze, bought from an off-license yesterday. They know his face by now, not dissimilar to his patients in his office years ago. Except they don’t know that the poor sod is an ex-army doctor, trained in trauma surgery who failed to save his wife in sodding London.

It wasn’t a bullet that brought Dr John H. Watson down, but a car. A car and John Watson hasn’t got a driving license — just like the young chap that killed his wife, a nurse, in a hit-and-run. The police caught him years later, a tip from an unofficial source – John forgot the details — and everyone hoped that the clouds would be lifted at last. Even his alcoholic sister had hoped for a miracle, but John was a non-believer since Mary died, after all his one wish, “Dear God, let her live” was unheard.

John isn’t vicious, but he has bad days.

His temper is getting worse with every passing day, and oh, how he hates it, and yet, he cannot change. 

Forever in limbo, just like Mary would have been if it hadn’t been his duty to put her to rest. Was it his last duty as a husband or a doctor?

The lines had started to blur back then, the bottle his new life companion. Mary would have hated it, and the John Watson of old too, but Dr John Watson is dead.

Dr John Watson would never do what he does next: in a trance-like state, he stumbles to the wall.

There is a noise next door, it has to be stopped.

* * *

While John Watson in 221c is battling with his demons, Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street occupies himself with updating his index.

He started The Science of Music after Sebastian Wilkes’ remark, however, those events are unrelated. Sherlock just happened to have an interest in cataloguing every pianist that has ever tried their hand — quite literally — at Chopin. If someone would care to look up The Science of Music on the internet, they would find an invaluable source, and all for free!

For instance, Sherlock has dedicated a complete section to the ridiculous notion of dyeing one’s hair to improve one’s skills. If it had not hit a bit too close to home, Sherlock would write a harsh “you don’t have to be gay to play Chopin”-statement too.

Sherlock didn’t find Chopin when questioning his sexuality, that’s press talk. If someone would bother to interview him again, he would correct that assumption ASAP.

Alas, even his number one fan — one James “Jim” Moriarty – had loved to shag him but hadn't been overly excited about his character. There had been a meet and greet when Sherlock had been on the threshold between a gifted child and breakthrough star – Mycroft’s meddling — and it had been blown out of proportion.

It was the only reason why Sherlock moved into his brother’s house for a significant amount of time, at least when you ask him.

All of a sudden, there’s a voice, no, more of a scream from the wall. It might be more of a rush of swear words. If Sherlock had not been so stunned, he would be impressed.

Sherlock's so not quoting Shakespeare when he asks: “Who’s there?”

* * *

The voice of the new neighbour sounds like porn, but John’s sex life died with Mary. Therefore, John barks: “Look, we have a bad soundproofing problem. And forget management. It’s not the same building. Nor the same district.”

John has been suspicious about Mrs Hudson’s statement since he moved in, however, back then he had been too deep in mourning and nowadays, he simply doesn’t bother to fact-check.

It’s the easiest way: scare away anyone. This stranger will leave soon too.

"Surely, there has to be a solution..."

This guy is an idiot.

"Don't settle in. You'll crack before you unpack."

John turns on his heels, strides to the radio and switches it on. It’s some electro-pop tune which John abhors, yet, he will endure as he’s positive that it will annoy his neighbour more.

John can be patient, what is two hours of this when the great silence will welcome him soon?

* * *

Then, Sherlock Holmes of 221b and John Watson of 221c go crazy. Someone must win, surely? And if they act like five-year-olds, who would care? There’s no one to judge. Mrs Hudson, their ever-suffering landlady of 221a, smiles knowingly “Boys will be boys," and that’s it.

Stage One: Scratches on the blackboard. John flinches when he sees his handiwork, yet he battles on.

Stage Two: Sherlock plays the piano, wrong and loud. He hates every second, and he cannot stop Mycroft’s voice in his head (“You’re acting like a child, Sherlock.”).

Stage Three: John decides to build a new installation now, with full force and all the noise. He gets something done; it feels not altogether bad. Furious, John wants to destroy it immediately. His hands are balled into fists, he shakes all-over. Fucking panic attack! It won't break, it won't break — and John isn't sure if he isn't referring to themselves.

Sherlock’s senses in 221b are alert. There’s something off in 221c, and even more so than normal. So, his neighbour is unusually quiet out of a sudden? Nothing to alarm Sherlock Holmes, he’s all his rational being. Surely, that’s just a ploy, a trick by him, to finally drive him out of 221b.

Sherlock Holmes rises to his full height, turns his head to the windows overlooking Baker Street: this is his home now.

* * *

It could have been a never-ending story, or Baker Street is Burning, but music finds its way. 

Sherlock is a pianist, and if you ask him, he would say that he's The Pianist. (He does not know the novel and its movie adaptation. He's quite ignorant towards such things. There's still a lot he has to learn, and one or two things he is going to learn just now...)

Sherlock Holmes would further say that he is the only one who can play Frédéric Chopin properly.

John Watson, his new neighbour, however, disagrees. “You slaughter him!”

“Are you a professional?”

“No – but my father worked behind the stage at the opera. He dragged me to all the rehearsals as a kid. God, how I wished to hate it. My old man and I never got along, you see, but when the music played… all was well for a minute. Music remained a sanctuary for me even when…” There was a break, a sudden stillness. The stranger clears his throat, then continues: “Anyway, this is not how you should play Chopin, believe me, mate.”

“And how should one play it, mate.” Sherlock has never more tried to sound mock-sternly.

“Don’t get me wrong: your technique is good, perfect even, but Chopin? That’s all wrong for someone like Chopin. Chopin is crazy, going wild, letting go. You sound like stuff upper lip meets posh private school tutor.”

Challenge accepted. Yet, with the rushing in of feelings, there comes an unknown feeling of liberty, of being content, of being alive. Sherlock's fingers are dancing over the piano, not unlike Sherlock did behind closed doors in his youth. It wasn’t natural for a male to enjoy ballet, and he had disappointed everyone again.

Now, thirty years later, Sherlock lets it all out: his anger, his frustration, his struggle, his demons, his desires.

There are flashbacks in his head, he struggles to focus on the notes and then closes his eyes for the first time in forever. He doesn’t need them anymore, probably hasn’t ever. As if a Sherlock Holmes would ever forget a piece? His mind palace is full of memories, and now they are morphing together with emotions, settling deep down into his bones.

Mummy’s disapproval, Victor’s intense gaze, the smell of the sheet music, the tick-tack of the clock. The name-calling, the anonymous audience, the always too bright spotlight, his suit as his armour. Redbeard used to sit next to the piano, never so much as one bark when Sherlock was playing. Not once, Sherlock heard: “I’m proud of you.” Who he – Sherlock Holmes – really was, has it ever mattered?

There's stunned silence in Baker Street after the last note.

“That was…”

“Not exactly bad…”

“Those were my thoughts exactly.”

Its silence once more but for the first time, a comfortable one.

“I’ve never played like that,” Sherlock surprises himself by admitting it.

“It’s a pity because you’re… good.” The stranger’s voice is gruff but honest, earnest in his compliment.

The silence stretches on, and it could be the end of it, but all of a sudden, the stranger asks: “Are you a professional?”

“Indeed, I am.” Only a humming sound as the reply and Sherlock hesitates before asking: “And what are you up to when you are you are not terrorising the neighbours?”

“Ha, bloody, ha. I’m an inventor. I have been developing games… for seven years now.” There’s a pause as if the stranger was surprised by the time himself. “You’ve heard of a Rubicon?”

“Yep.”

“Something like it, just more challenging. Rubicon is an easy task. The game I’m currently developing is one of the mind games, that it produces images in the player’s mind, playing him tricks so that they aren’t sure what’s truth or fiction anymore.”

“That is fascinating.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ve said so myself. Do keep up. I hate repeating myself…”

“Thank you… I guess.” Another beat of silence. “How do you look?”

“Even if I'm flattered by your interest, I should probably say that I’m married to my work. “

“No, my god, no… I wasn’t… that isn’t… what I wanted is simply visualise who terrorised me for days. Put a face to a name… so: what’s your name?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and you?”

“I’m John, John Watson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Watson.”

“John, please, after all, we’re neighbours now. And even if you're probably a hundred years old, I’ll offer the first-name-basis. It’s the twenty-first century, after all.”

“Smooth, John. Is someone eager to find out my age? Should I add my sexual preferences next? “

Sputtering, “No, as I said before, all is fine. Seriously, Sherlock, and I’m just a noisy git. Morbid curiosity as my mom used to call it. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Apologies accepted. 43.”

“43?”

“I am referring to my age, John: I am 43 years old.”

“Oh, okay, 45 here… You know what? It’s quite nice. This talking through walls a bit. A bid odd, mind you, but actually… good… When I’m out, I often feel as if I want to slap people. All those looks, expectations… but here? It’s different but a nice change. We can talk, and we don’t even know how the other looks. This sounds quite liberating.”

“Are you still trying to persuade me to tell you how I look?”

“No, I mean what I say: it’s a nice change, Sherlock. Imagine it always like that: no looks, no expectations, only a voice. And even if it’s an off-key singalong to the radio in the shower.”

“You are the one singing it wrong.”

“If you say so, Sherlock…”

“I’m the musician…”

“You’re a pianist, quite a difference, Sherlock. I haven’t said that I mind. It’s… charming”

“You’re a terrible flirt, John Watson.”

“You haven’t heard me try. Anyway: can we agree on something, Sherlock?”

“Which is…?”

“That it’s not all bad to have a neighbour?”

“And why is that?”

“Because it never gets boring… at least, when one lives next to Sherlock Holmes.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.srf.ch/kultur/musik/spaetes-outing-chopin-war-schwul-und-niemand-sollte-davon-erfahren (in German, the original research and background of the investigative journalist)
> 
> Here, you can read some British report about Chopin being gay/homosexual/queer, and how his interest in men was hidden (intentionally!) by academics & Co:  
> https://www.theguardian.com/music/2020/nov/25/chopins-interest-in-men-airbrushed-from-history-programme-claims  
> https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/news/chopin-frederic-composer-gay-letters-b1761548.html
> 
> Just google it, in 2020, you can actually find a bit about it. And yes, it's still An Issue for some (which can be witnessed in realtime on via editing wars on Wikipedia, for instance.). Seriously, even in 2020, you cannot be a hero, and being queer at the same time.


	3. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to… keep up our relationship but not as a _normal_ relationship?”
> 
> “It’s quite elegant, isn’t it? We would be together but still have our freedom. All the benefits but no pressure, no facade, just us… our voices.”

There is a very thin wall between 221b and 221c.

As if by chance, it has separated two sitting rooms that now almost morph into one. One sitting room belongs to Sherlock Holmes (43), a pianist, and the other one to Dr John H. Watson (45), whatever he might be after everything. Theoretically, John is a war hero, an ex-surgeon, a widower, and he’s telling everyone that he is developing a game which might take a lifetime.

There is a wall between them, but they cannot be separated.

The men are different, so are their rooms: one sitting room has Victorian wallpaper, a fireplace, a coffee table overflowing with papers, and a couch that is turned into a bed.

From where Sherlock Holmes is sitting in 221b, one can see that the kitchen is turned into a laboratory. Unknown to most, his freezer now contains thumbs.

Oh, and the carpet has burn marks, some might be from acid.

There’s a skull too. Until last night, it was the only friend — if you can call a skull a friend — of Sherlock Holmes. The skull's name is Billy if someone is interested in details.

However, today is a new day, because Sherlock Holmes has met — in a way – John Watson.

John Watson lives in 221c.

His sitting room is his flat. It’s small, plain and overall boring, but that’s John Watson for you, or so he believes.

The flat is not that cold, but John prefers to wear his favourite jumper. Most of them are beige, today's jumper is no exception. John's predictable, or so it seems.

John has brought his tea with him to the wall. It’s stupid and reckless to lower himself on the floor, but John Watson is stubborn. Mary – Dr John H. Watson's dead wife, a nurse — used to say that it’s one of his best qualities. 

There’s a flicker in John's eyes, but then he clenches his hands. Ella Thompson, his therapist, says that it's PTSD. A psychosomatic limp and a tremor in your dominant hand aren't exactly what one calls a jackpot, even less so when one used to be an excellent surgeon. To use more drastic words: "It is what it is, and what it is, is shit."

Currently, John Watson is leaning against the wall now. The activity should have tired him, his hand should start trembling any second now. The clock from the bedside table ticks; nothing happens. His cane is resting against his table. He could fetch it if he would miss its absence. For the first time in forever, John Watson's head is clear; he feels a rush of excitement.

It's this feeling of being alive that makes John blurt out: “Last night was…” Then he stops, listens carefully, chides himself for being foolish, –

“Was…?” There's a voice, unusually quiet, a bit unsure, but it's him: Sherlock Holmes.

It makes John, ex-soldier, to battle on, for now, he wants to win a fight: “Last night was not so…”

“Bad…?”

Sherlock sounds hesitant, and John hates it with every fibre of his being.

 _Who made you like this?_ John wants to ask as he is falling into doctor mode instantly. Instead, he reigns himself in: _This isn’t the place nor the time. Sherlock isn’t my patient, and I’m not a doctor anymore_. 

Alas, he senses a new beginning, when he replies: “Yes, quite…one might even say, _good_.”

“Good, yes, it was quite fine actually.”

Without having seen him before, John can picture him: long fingers toying with some unknown item. He’s a pianist, he has to be tactile. John’s voice sounds foreign to him when he says: “Sherlock, whether we like it or not, we’re in a kind of relationship now, an unusual one but a relationship.”

When it’s out, John is shocked. This isn’t him, at least, not anymore. Back in the university days, he was flirting with strangers, but that’s been a lifetime ago. While Greg would high-five him and Ella would be pleased, John is alarmed.

Before he can take it all back, apologise, move out, leave the country, Sherlock speaks up, “A relationship…?”

John has to fix it, somehow, anyhow, so he babbles. “Not a relationship in a sense of relationship, but… we’re neighbours, flatmates to a degree, maybe… friends… I just thought that we could maybe… _meet_? You could come over or I could come to yours, and we could… talk. Just like we do now, just face to face.”

There is silence.

Why is Sherlock silent? It’s not like him to be silent.

And no, John cannot tell why he knows this either. He simply does.

Now, it’s his turn to inquire hesitantly, “Sherlock?”

There is the noise of cars and busses outside. People are milling on the pavement. Many of them are tourists as Madame Tussauds is close by. A dog is barking. _Would Sherlock love to have a dog? Maybe he had one as a young boy?_ There are so many questions inside John’s head.

“I like what we have, John," says Sherlock. "I have thought about what you’ve said the other night a lot, and I think that I agree with you.”

“Agree with me?” John’s voice is full of questions but also wonder. It’s as if John Watson knows that it’s highly improbable that Sherlock Holmes agrees with you.

“It might be unusual, John, this arrangement of ours, but I enjoy it and I think that you enjoy it as well. Why jeopardises the status quo? We’re both unusual men, so why do it the usual way? Meeting face to face, that’s so ordinary. What we have John, is special and unique. I came to the realization that I want to keep it, want to keep talking to you.”

There is silence in 221b Baker Street and 221c Baker Street.

It's so quiet that they can hear Mrs Hudson singing along in 221a. She has turned up the radio, probably to give them some privacy.

Her taste in music is abhorrent, but there's something sweet about her pronouncing "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" as if retaking a spelling exam.

Both men are starting to laugh. Sherlock might even giggle at one point. 

John has to gulp down the tea before he can continue the conversation. His face hurts a bit from the unusual movement.

"You want to… keep up our relationship but not as a _normal_ relationship?”

It's a bit like defusing a bomb or trying to evade quicksand. John's body is alert, his muscles tense, his mind firing and filtering information at light-speed. It's as if someone isn't simply offering him a partnership, but saying, "Welcome back.”

“Yes, John, that is what I mean exactly.” Sherlock sounds excited.

"Huh...”

“It’s quite elegant, isn’t it? We would be together but still have our freedom. All the benefits but no pressure, no facade, just us… our voices.”

* * *

It’s another Friday when The Experiment starts, as Sherlock calls the test phase: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes being together, but not together. There has to be a better term for it, but for now, Sherlock is content with The Arrangement. 

It’s been two weeks since he moved into 221b. 

How much Sherlock's life has changed already: his concert is on the horizon, but he can push his looming anxiety away. He feels no need to rush over to his piano to practice for hours — astonishing!

* * *

On the 27th of July, Sherlock wakes up early, but surprisingly well-rested. Somehow, he has found his way into his bed instead of the sofa, and for a second, he is irritated but then the memory comes back: John! He has ordered him to sleep in a real bed for once and oddly, Sherlock has followed his command.

Dr John H. Watson, ex-military, is his new neighbour.

Instead of irritated, Sherlock is intrigued. A puzzle and he isn't even upright yet.

He could ponder about the enigma next door, yet, he wants to prolong the experience.

So, Sherlock relishes in the soft covers, tries out the difference between his satin pyjamas and bare skin, how his head is resting in different body positions on his cushion. He inspects his long fingers, cards his hand through his curls, follows the treasure trail to its destination.

Resting his hand around his prick, he hesitates. It has hardened considerably, a strange but not altogether bad feeling, and yet, he isn’t sure if he should continue this. Then he scolds himself: this. As if he’s a teenage boy and not a middle-aged man. While he aches for it, he feels trapped too, as he is an insecure man hidden behind an inscrutable mask.

Or, at least, he had been until last night. Which leads to the underlying reason for stopping this — damn it, self-pleasure – _John_?

Would John hear him?

Would John hear that Sherlock has his hands — his long pianist fingers — in his pants and that Sherlock is frigging himself?

Would he hear him moan, whimper, cry out for it, not for him obviously, but for a touch?

Sherlock bites down hard onto his other hand to not let any sound slip out when he comes.

Sherlock's breakfast routine is broken too. He gulps down the cold tea with too much sugar, but then he eyes the scones that Mrs Hudson brought up yesterday. In the end, he even eats an apple. It is disgusting how his transport betrays him. What’s up next: muesli?

He huffs out in annoyance, and yet he finds himself standing next to the kettle. When he searches for milk and discovers that it went off, he closes the fridge’s door with full force. He makes a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to pop into the Tesco, because before he goes shopping himself, England would fall!

England is falling — unknown to its population — twenty minutes later when Sherlock Holmes is roaming the aisles. Sherlock has no particular knowledge about necessary ingredients but he’s a genius, he can observe and deduce.

While comparing different types of cheese — at the growing alarm of the clerks — he convinces himself that this is simply another experiment. An experiment that leads to him having all sorts of cheese in his bag as the shop has a non-return policy, or something – Sherlock has deleted the details as well as the outrage of the other customers immediately.

When Sherlock returns from the Tesco fiasco to 221b, Mrs Hudson spots him. That woman is observant. When she would leave Baker Street, England would fall for real. She helps him bring everything into his kitchen: all seventeen steps with three bags full of cheese.

Sherlock cannot react fast enough; she opens the fridge and comes face to face with a bag of thumbs. Small mercies, she doesn’t faint or, worse, investigates the content of the freezer as it contains a real head.

“What is all this about, young man?” She makes a flourishing gesture with her arm and Sherlock assumes that she has had dancing training too.

“I got bored.”

Instantly, she is laughing so loud that surely John will hear it.

“Oh, Sherlock,” and then it’s laughing again.

Her face gets all wrinkly, the resemblance to a motherly figure increasing. He should huff and scoff, and as he has done it before, slam doors. Mycroft can tell tales, and oh, how he relishes in it. Now, Sherlock joins in, carefree.

“Then it’s decided: Fondue tonight.” His look tells her to reconsider — it’s disgusting, the wobbling cheese, the texture all wrong, and then the bread dipping in, sometimes leaving crumbs behind — so she suggests, “Pizza?”, to switch over to, “Mac & Cheese. Last chance, young man, after all…”

Mrs Hudson makes the gesture with her hand, Sherlock estimates that she’s danced irregularly for at least 60 years. There might be some of the exotic variety involved.

“I see… pasta it is then.” Sherlock drops a bag of noodles on the kitchen counter, “They were 20% off, and John likes Macaroni, reminds him of his childhood.”

Her eyes are too soft, but he lets it uncomment for now. She promises to cook a nice meal for them all in her kitchen and bring it up later.

Sherlock zooms out already, rummaging in his flat in search of a good bottle of wine. Mrs Hudson certainly deserves one for putting up with them.

* * *

“Jesus, Sherlock, you tasted the cheese with your tongue?”

They have found their places again, as close to the wall separating them as possible.

Sherlock had dragged his chair there during the afternoon. Then, overlooking it, decided on a whim to rearrange part of the living room too. Now, two chairs were placed next to the wall, the table in between, and the rug below. The new place for the lamp was an improvement because before it had stood next to the two windows.

The painting with the pirate ship — and Sherlock had named it Gloria Scott in his mind, itching to share the tale with John soon — is now towering over them all. When it now flips, Sherlock isn’t terrified but excited: John is here, calling to him.

Sherlock had surprised himself with inhaling the homemade meal. It smelt delicious and John had giggled when he had heard Sherlock’s stomach rumble. He should have lashed out, or ignored his transport, but instead, he had dug into the past with relish. It was not altogether bad to eat with John as his company. It was quite pleasant, and Sherlock sensed a sudden warmth which could not be explained totally by digestion.

It made him babble — another first — about his day. While skipping over his morning activities in bed, Sherlock Holmes transformed his shopping trip into an adventure. Somehow, he detected that John Watson loves sensational literature. There was no harm done by turning himself into a hero, surely.

Sherlock's coat had flattered a bit more in the wind, his curls had been perfectly coiffed, and his blue scarf had hugged his neck just so.

He had deduced the exact number of dogs the woman on the street corner (three) owned and he had spotted that the man waiting at the crossing had recently walked out of his wife, had a male lover who happened to be the children’s teacher, and he was allergic to pollen. Him having a twin brother might have been a lark, but Sherlock had a sudden need to impress John.

And this is how they ended up with the incident with the cheese.

Never normal, never boring John, reacted unexpectedly again: “For a self-declared genius, you’re dense: health and safety? Ring any bells?”

“Should I remind you, Dr Watson, how taste is important, and how many taste buds and nerve ends are in the human tongue?” Sherlock should be put off, but he is intrigued, and a bit turned on. Just a bit, mind you, but his prick is a foolish organ since meeting John and believes that it would get some action tonight again.

“I am not a doctor anymore, Sherlock. Anyway, you are lucky that they only demanded that you buy all the contained cheese…”

It takes Sherlock an embarrassingly long time to answer, partly because he’s embarrassed. Partly, because his mind supplies him with pictures of Doctor John examining him, oh, and yes, one could experiment with tastes and touch and, oh, John is speaking again.

“That’s all they did, didn’t they?”

His answer is some huff, and it sounds not as affronted as he should be.

“Huh, Sherlock? I cannot hear you.”

A fierce glance down to his prick, back to fixing the wall and imagining John sitting in a similar position — without a hard-on, probably — and mastering his poshest voice, when he replies at last: “I might be prohibited to ever set foot into this Tesco ever again.”

“You utter nutter.”

“Her face was as white as a camembert.”

It isn’t wheezing with laughter, it is howling. Whatever game they’re playing, it is so _on_.

TBC


	4. Queer Solidarity

John sort of sleepwalked into this gaming business, which is an accurate description as he was barely functioning at that time, constantly haunted by his nightmares of Mary's death.

It turns out that he has a knack for creating realistic conquests. It pays off to be an ex-doctor and an ex-soldier: after all, you can name all the bones of the human body while breaking them.

John's landscape design is constantly praised, so vivid and full of details. Presumably, his bosses have skipped the part on his CV that listed his time in Afghanistan. John cannot blame them, he prefers to delete it too.

Alas, life doesn’t have the reset option. Therefore, John continues to blend as much of his nightmares into his games as he can stomach, and then pours out a drink to the veterans when he receives the pay-check.

Programming ego shooter games set in an active war zone might not have been Ella’s intention when suggesting writing down his memories, but who cares? John’s been passed that point aeons ago. To put it bluntly: he doesn’t give a fuck. John H. Watson is The Player.

Yes, his fictional characters tend to use strong, foul language. The grimness of war, there’s no polite way to say: “prepare to die”.

Trust John, he’s been there. Or he still is, and never left, who knows.

* * *

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’ve met someone.”

Two people rushing out words, and then a pause, awkward. They’re best friends, two odd sods, she visits him in Baker Street announced.

Sherlock presses his mouth shut, curses inwardly and then conceals his uneasiness with a huff and drapes his dressing gown dramatically over himself. It’s not his shield, or so he tells himself.

Molly blushes as she so often does. Then she fidgets with her fingers, typical. Up next will straighten up her sweater, or so Sherlock predicts.

He is wrong: with a smile, Molly turns to him fully and says, “That’s nice.” No reaction from him, so she ponders on, “Isn't it?”

Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes met in school. Naturally, she got a terrible crush on him and he had to let her down.

“Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for some people — “, oh, the speech had been well-practised in front of the mirror for days. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been the outcome.

“Sherlock, I’m gay.” Some people were quite contradictory, weren’t they? Quiet, unassuming Molly Hooper had surprised him then, back in the twentieth century.

History is repeating itself, she surprises him once more: “Coffee, Sherlock? And you can tell me all about your neighbour you’d like to shag. Call it queer solidarity.”

In 221b, on June the 1st, Sherlock does something with his eyes, blinking, probably.

She saunters to the door — she! — And opens it. Molly smiles, no, smirks.

* * *

John Watson isn’t an idiot.

He knows that all stories start with either a man going on a journey or a man coming to town. As a kid, he was a fan of Tolkien’s story, and he carried a paperback version of _The Hobbit_ to the desert.

Yet, he only incorporated a mentor figure into his adventure games so far. One of his bosses couldn’t stop demanding, “Stop painting the solitude of the sand, we know it by now. It’s getting boring when there’s a no-man land. Where are the people?”

John’s first instinct was to reply, “They’re dead”. It would have been the truth, but this was a fantasy. Therefore, he turned Major Sholto into the heroic mentor. For John, he remained the steadfast soldier, and here, he could recreate James how he looked without the scars.

“Looks good,” his boss stated, pleased. “It’s kind of hot.”

 _Civilians_ , John thought. He had nodded or something. Before heading home to his bedsit John had bought Major James Sholto’s favourite whisky. It had burnt in his throat when Captain Watson gulped it down later, yet he battled on.

That night John had wailed like an animal or cried like a baby. He had scrubbed his body until the skin was red and then further still when he woke up, disgusted by the semen on him.

The next day John had moved out of his bedsit into a cheap hotel until he ran into Mrs Hudson who had saved him.

Since then, whenever John needed to create another feature with the Major in it, he emptied his apartment of booze before. Mrs Hudson knew without being told that it was a dangerous night. Around ten she would knock on his door and invite him to watch telly with her. There was always some home-cooked meal too. The smell and taste brought John always back to the present.

Baker Street was his sanctuary, his home.

It alarms John Watson when out-of-nowhere, on August the 1st, his hero has a partner.

"Well, fuck me" — these are surely not Dr John H. Watson words ( _probably_ ).

* * *

Molly Hooper is younger than Sherlock.

Molly turning 40 next year. She isn’t bothered by it. “It’s been harder when the big 3 arrived,” she used to say. Her long, brown hair got a pixie cut when she turned 31. She has picked up a stronger language too, alongside a new cat. The cat’s name is Toby. Now, at 39, she doesn’t give a fuck.

Just like her girlfriend, soon-to-be wife, who Sherlock only refers to by her last name, Hopkins. 

Sherlock is not snooping — much — and Molly is a secretive bunch — mostly — alas, they’re best friends for ages, so they meet for coffee regularly. They promise to not talk about private — intimate — matters, and gossip until their drinks are gone cold.

When meeting with Molly, Sherlock opts for black coffee with two sugars. Long experience has taught him that it holds the warmth the longest, also it’s cheap. He had to bin it only twice — imagine, it had to be some fancy Frappuccino!

The juicy bit might be worth it all, but Sherlock won’t risk it.

The juicy bits are his kick (markdown, it’s his kick, not kink, there’s a difference)!; they kickstart his routine. First, there is the tingling in his fingers, or maybe it’s his brain who caught on first? Anyway, his priority at that point is rushing home as quickly as humanly possible. (Once he overpaid a cabbie so urgent were his matters. He needed to be behind closed doors, to lock out the world, to only focus on himself and his ideas.) 

Molly’s tales from the pedestrian world of ordinary humans provided it for him, over and over again. Sherlock’s long fingers itched to finally touch the piano. They ached to voice out the whispers of the most private wishes, to illuminate the desires, to draw out the temptation until its glorious climax.

Oh, people can be so naughty. And they never expected sweet, unassuming Molly Hooper to detect all their secrets.

“Tell me about…,” she says, smiling, and they deliver.

The people love Molly and her little café. They coo over the photographs of her cat on the wall. 

“It’s queer solidarity,” she says. Maybe it had been Hopkins instead but who cares at this point?

They opened the café together at their fifth anniversary. “Speedy” was replaced by “H. M. H.” Thank God for the hipsters, or the queer crowd who are H. M. H's main clientele, and Sherlock’s fever dream.

It’s better than a masturbation session — yes, including the purple dildo that hit Sherlock’s prostate just so — because it’s a piece of reality.

Even while it’s filtered by Molly – customers' privacy, etc., — it has a trace of truth in it, which Sherlock turns into a symphony of being alive.

Because this is it, the very essence of his existence, his heart and soul: composing.

For those precious seconds, minutes, hours, Sherlock Holmes feels alive and for a fracture of note, he is part of it all: the subculture of his beloved London, its gay heart.

* * *

“So, Sherlock, spill the beans.” Molly is determined.

Their hot beverages are steaming in their mugs. This time Molly opted for a splash of milk; Sherlock observes. He knows that he’s stalling. 

They arrived at H. M. H. twelve minutes ago, and Sherlock even ordered a slice of cheesecake. It’s only a half-lie that he hasn’t eaten all day. Anyone except Molly, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson would believe it. And John: they had shared breakfast this morning.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. Don’t deny it. Remember best friends?”

Molly’s smile would mirror his when Sherlock would smile, which he doesn’t.

“It’s a good look on you. What brought it on?” 

Molly is not altogether bad in deductions; their long friendship voting in her favour too. One has to be good at reading people when owning a café, Sherlock supposes.

H. M. H. is hush-hush because some people believe that their baristas are actual mind-readers. They’re simply well-trained, and a boot camp by Mr Sherlock Holmes is an eyeopener in the human mind. Observation is the key to good customer service; it shouldn’t be such a revolutionary concept.

Today, Sally Donovan is the one in charge. Sherlock remembers the black woman well: she is quick with her hand as well as her mouth. There had been a not-too-subtle remark about her latest conquest when they had placed their order, and Sherlock had felt bad. It had been an excellent example for: observe, deduce and conclude — but not share your knowledge with everyone. Sure, some people take it better to comment on their weight than to give a bad blowjob last night, but there’s a chance that they won’t.

Sherlock realises he’s in deep when the memories are morphing into a silhouette of him giving a man a blowjob.

“No one brought this on.” Instantly, Sherlock realises his error and tries to back-paddle, “I mean, nothing brought this on. All is normal.”

“John is the new normal then?”

Sherlock puffs, it’s annoying. Also, Molly isn’t wrong. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, he should want to talk about him, shouldn’t he? Molly has shown her trust over and over. She surely knows more about this dating and potential relationship business than he. His rushing thoughts come to an abrupt halt: _relationship_? Alarmed, he blurts out: “Lovely music you have here, Chopin, isn’t it?”

Molly, the loyal Molly, plays along, “Yes, it is. A talented man recorded this session for us. I heard that he even does his arrangements. Don’t ask me for details — my best friend is the expert in music — but you can talk with him about it if you’re curious.”

She stops, points at his plate, “He might have a minute to spare. After all, he’s showing no interest in eating his cheesecake." She picks up his mug for a second, “And his coffee needs a refill.” A beat of a second, “You could buy him a cup, I hope that his pick-up lines have improved since school days, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Her eyes are alight with mischief, and Sherlock all-too-well remembers that this is Molly Hooper too: headstrong, determined, infuriating.

She takes the last sip from her coffee; her mug is empty now too. “I am not sure if that’s considered incest,” before Sherlock can reply, she ends, “as you’re the artist as you know.”

Molly gets up, indicating that she will get them both a refill. Turning around, she stage-whispers, “So maybe, Sherlock, ask John out instead.”

While Molly is away — taking extra-long, but that could be because of a snogging session with her girlfriend — Sherlock refuses to think about John. 

Instead, Sherlock spaces out and listens to the music playing in H. M. H.

There are playlists for coffee shops, and some people stream them at home too. Most of it are no original pieces, just the remixed jingle and the mundane classic dragged so long that the ears should bleed. Of course, there are the rare cafés that have live music, a pianist sitting in a corner and sometimes he’s even paid a minimum wage.

Poor students and starving artists are an everyday occurrence in a city like London, and Sherlock would never believe that this fate awaited him, alas fate had other ideas. There was a trust fund but Mycroft, the fat bastard, was hovering about it like an evil dragon over his hoard. The rules for getting access were positively medieval.

No, Sherlock Holmes refused to be a slave to his brother. It was annoying enough that he had to live with him for some time, and oh, the disdain for his composing, his constant meddling, his never-ending conceit. Therefore, Sherlock had turned to Molly and started his career as a consulting pianist.

Consulting pianist, as far as Sherlock Holmes knows, is a singular position. He is the only one in the world. He invented his job: he is The Pianist. 

He loves it, as it pays quite well. For Molly, he’s doing it for free. She retributed it in kindness and baked goods, oh, and the coffee. When he’s working, he stays up long and he isn’t in his twenties anymore. Sherlock doesn’t feel guilty: London is expensive and 221b Baker Street is a prime spot, and his wardrobe needed an update.

Sebastian Wilkes, stupid Sebastian, would probably argue that everyone can play some tunes on the piano and call it art. That something so ordinary like a coffee shop doesn’t need something hand-crafted but that’s why he’s an idiot. Coffee shops cater to the illusion of individuality, unlike cafés, you can create your drink. It’s an overpriced show, and probably the customers recognise it, but that’s the twenty-first century for you.

When you want to upload the newest photo of your vegan-white-flat-extra shot of whatever flavour is woke nowadays-coffee on social media, you crave that there is a soundtrack to your all-perfect-filtered-life. To not only add the blandest tags and hope to get validation by likes, and oh-it’s-so-authentic, but yes, the _La La Land_ Feeling. (Molly had told him that _Glee_ was out, that was her only remark when he had presented her his plans.)

Do you believe that baristas are artists? Then Sherlock Holmes is an artist too.

Making art with foam, however? Sherlock prefers a skull over a flower. Surprisingly, he was the only one managing it, while the baristas barely managed _Für Elise_. (And his ears were close to bleeding then, even Wilkes sounded like Lang Lang suddenly.)

Baking and coffee making is pure science, and Sherlock would have opted for chemistry if music hadn’t been his first love. (Or pirate and John would have been there too, and they had a dog called Redbeard.)

It’s Molly’s from far away, cautious, “Sherlock…,” echoing a lifetime of conversations that makes him admit: “I don’t want to shag him — as you so inadequately but – I’m in love with him.”

* * *

“I’ve met someone.”

“Oh, John: that’s lovely!”

Ella is a professional, but John knows her well enough that she's truly pleased. 

It’s Wednesday and he arrived on time for their meeting. That was probably a telling sign that something happened. John hopes that she hasn’t dialled the number of the nearby psychiatric clinic. If so, John cannot blame her: Dr Ella Thompson has been his therapist from the beginning.

John makes a face that he hopes can be interpreted as a smile.

“What’s her name?”

“His name is Sherlock.” Her face is carefully blank, but John knows that he has caught her unaware. “Yes, it's an unusual name, but he's an unusual man. It fits…”

John is positive that the unsaid, “We fit” is loud and clear. She’s writing something down, probably that bit about accepting his bisexuality at last. 

Ella isn’t chiding him about reading his writing upside-down. He used to have the habit at the beginning. Back then, he was desperate to make sense of everything. 

Those were easier, darker days.

“How did you two met?”

“We didn’t.” Oh, and it's childish glee to see her frowning.

Her quirked eyebrow, “Do tell, Dr Watson”, plain as day.

“We’re neighbours, he’s the new tenant at 221b Baker Street.”

“And…”

“That’s all.”

“Dr Watson – John – if you don’t want to tell about him” — she checks her notes, she wrote something down — “then I won’t pry. However, I don’t need to tell you about what a breakthrough that could be. It could be your turning point. And that you mentioned Sherlock today — for me, it seems like you want to share this with me.”

She fixed him with a patient smile. “So, if you want to tell me all about Sherlock. I’m here to listen, after all, you pay me for it.”

And then there’s the spark again, the underlying reason why he picked her as his therapist: there’s more to her than meets the eye.

It’s banter, good fun. She’s found a way to insert cracks in his armour. In another universe, they could have become friends. Gossiping about their patients, anonymously of course, but imitating their habits pitch-perfect. Ella, in particular, has the air of an actress sometimes.

“Okay.” Distinctly, he’s in soldier-mode. “As you know, the wall is thin. And what should I say: one can hear everything.”

“ _Everything_.”

He’s blushing, it rattles him. It’s not like that, is it? Or, it wasn’t like that. He hasn’t, Sherlock hasn’t, they both aren’t like that. John feels himself sweating. It alarms him.

“I’m not gay. We’re neighbours. We get on, we talk for hours. He’s insane and probably mad; he’s a pianist, you know. But it’s not like that.”

Ella’s humming and her next line will be, “It's all fine, John” and it makes him angry.

Why does everything have a double meaning all of a sudden? Why can’t they simply be friends, two people bound together? Probably, John should say that Sherlock isn’t like that. He could repeat Sherlock’s “flattered by his interest”-phrase, couldn’t he?

Yet, John hesitates. Maybe Ella had been right; this is a turning point, not only because of mentioning Sherlock but also of what they are doing about their meeting. 

After all, there’s more to do when one wants to break down a wall.

“I like him, you see. He’s a genius, and when he plays… I have never heard anything like him. But he’s also such a complicated man. He drives me up the walls, he infuriates me. Who gets banned by Tesco? He deleted the solar system — and relearned it because I teased him about it. Mrs Hudson said that he wanted macaroni made out of the armada of cheese because he deduced my childhood food. Deduction is another thing that this lunatic believes to be real. And you know what? I believe it might be. Before meeting him, I would say it’s straight out of fiction, but you cannot fake all that. No, he’s a nutter but he’s mine. He’s real.”

“And how do you feel about all that?”

Smart woman.

“Frankly, I don’t know.“

TBC


	5. Blind Date

"Stay back, stay back!" Ratatatam of the guns. "One man down!" Screams, shouts, swear words. Screams again. Then: agony and pain. "John!" Blood, too much blood, all his blood.

He's bleeding out in the sand, and John cannot save him.

The next shot is his.

He knows it, waits for it. John stops praying for a miracle.

His mouth opens for the last word ...

...

_ Für Elise _ isn't the soundtrack for John’s nightmares.

Or, it hasn't been until now. Because with every tune the sound of the gunfire gets softer. You cannot hurt people fatally when music is around. Maybe some madmen could shoot people with their playlist, but soldiers are just weaponized men. They've been turned into machines, but they've kept their heart.

Just like John’s, as his heart that wants to beat once more. John wants to listen to Sherlock's play forever. So he has to stay alive.

* * *

  
  


Next morning, it's a Tuesday, John cannot remember if the music in the dark happened.

John is standing barefoot in his cramped kitchen, debating if his stomach can contain a sandwich, still wearing his jogging pants and a vest. He forgot to put his proper pyjamas in the washing machine. Today, he opted out of a dressing gown to cover up his scarred shoulder.

Without even looking into a mirror, he knows that his greying hair is sleep-tossed. It is getting too long for his taste, but the sound of a machine or sharp scissors so close to his body makes him anxious. Mary said that she preferred her doctor clean-shaven, an argument that John uses as an alibi on a bad day. More days than not, he lets his beard grow like a hermit, after all, there’s no partner to kiss anymore. Back then his hair had been blond.

It’s the humming of  _ Für Elise _ that brings John back to the present.

He should be alarmed, but he isn't. After living so long in quick-sand memories, he's used to being forever in limbo. If there had been a disruption, and something as soothing as  _ Für Elise _ , then he welcomes it with wide arms. If it was Sherlock who brought him back to London, then John would hug him too.

While pouring milk into his tea, the realisation sinks in that John would cherish Sherlock's warmth no matter what.

It's not the body heat that he craves, it's the intimacy. A well-prepared Earl Grey Tea can help much, so can music, but a human connection? Endless possibilities.

The milk is clouding the dark liquid. Not for the first time, John wonders if it means that with every passing second, it's less easy to distinguish the tea from the milk, or if the overall effect is that the drink got a bit brighter in colour, a bit softer in taste.

_Only an Englishman tries to find philosophy in a tea mug_ , John thinks. He grins, then tries out a smile, and when he succeeds, he drinks his tea.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes up, he’s in agony. His fingers are aching terribly. They are – next to his brain – his most important body parts. He should treat them better as age catches up with him as it does with everyone else.

Sherlock does the breathing exercise his doctor – not John – recommended. Back then he had scoffed, but it helps. In, out, in, out. It improves his stress level too. He feels calmer, more balanced, and Sherlock would be royally pissed if it wasn’t so counterproductive.

If Sherlock doesn’t want to suffer from arthritis in retirement, he should look after himself better. His doctor – not John – has reminded him of that fact over and over again. It’s not that Mike Stamford isn’t correct – he’s a good doctor, even though he’s not John – but it’s a nuisance.

Where are the days in which he could wake up without pain? His right knee for instance bothered him last weekend. He had taken a nap on the sofa, and that was how his body showed his gratitude! Sherlock would have scoffed far more if he hadn’t been so occupied searching for pain meds.

Thank God that he had stopped smoking in his late twenties. Oh, Sherlock remembers with much chagrin his reply to Mycroft as a teenager: “Who cares that I smoke? I’m not a singer, Mycroft. I’m a pianist. My fingers are doing just fine.”

Yes, Sherlock Holmes sometimes wonders how he managed to live so long.

It isn’t until Sherlock nibbles on a scone for an improv breakfast that he realises that his ears aren’t bleeding. His hearing is just fine while playing sodding  _ Für Elise _ for hours.

“Sentiment!” (And oh, much longing instead of scolding is there to be found in Sherlock’s voice suddenly.)

* * *

It's well past ten when Sherlock drags himself to the piano. Normally, his practice starts at 8:00 sharp. His mind is sluggish; too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Most distracting are the thoughts about John however, painting his war memories in the ever grimmer palette with each passing moment. There is the echo of John’s outcry replaying forever.

Sherlock starts with  _ Etudes, Op. 25: No. 3 in F-Major _ .

His fingers are dancing; up, down, up again. There’s some variation in it today.  _ John’s right, you cannot play Chopin while following the rules _ , Sherlock’s treacherous inner voice says.

Who says you cannot blend over to  _ Etudes, Op. 25: No. 4 in A-Minor _ ?  _ It’s not proper, it cannot be done _ , a voice like Mycroft quips, or is it, Anderson, with his dull remarks?

How shocking – it works.

Sherlock remembers remixes. He, who always loved to spot patterns, creates his own. There ought no same leitmotif in different etudes, but who says that you cannot create their own? 

_ It’s not Chopin, you say? It’s inspired by him, and he who never played one etude the same in his lifetime _ – Sherlock isn’t convinced that he’s failing Chopin.

_ Maybe _ , Sherlock muses while he searches in his mind palace for the final piece,  _ I finally found him. _

It’s  _ Waltz Op. 64, No. 1 in D-Flat Major _ . 

_ How fitting _ , Sherlock thinks, his smugness and smirk turning into a smile,  _ I always had a fondness for the waltz. _

* * *

  
  


They meet for lunch at their wall without making arrangements before.

Spontaneity isn’t their habit, but when they heard the one preparing something in the kitchen, the other man’s feet found their way to the fridge to put out the meal Mrs Hudson had stored there. The sound of cutlery from the one man told the other to put the kettle on and to clean a mug.

It’s half-past one on the dot when Sherlock Holmes eyes the left-over lasagne suspiciously and John Watson inhales the same dish with gusto. The company by proxy makes Sherlock give the lunch a try, and he surprises himself that he manages to finish most on his plate.

“You played for me.”

“Is that a question, John?”

“No, not really, Sherlock. I’m not 100% sure why you played  _ Für Elise _ for hours, but no complaints on my part. So… thank you, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“… yes, because it cannot be a pleasant experience for you…”

“It wasn’t all bad.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Question again, John? Maybe say what you want.”

“Go out with me, Sherlock.”

* * *

  
  


The next day, Sherlock wakes up giddy and excited which is odd. It's also very early. 

A glance at the alarm clock on his bedsit table confirms it: it's 10 hours, 12 minutes and 5 seconds until John Watson and Sherlock Holmes will have a Date.

Yes, it's Date and Arrangement in his head. Love apparently can overrule proper English. He should be appalled, instead, he is grinning. 

Mrs Hudson is pleased when he blurts it out half an hour later: “Oh, Sherlock.” She wipes away some imaginary tears. “I’ll bake a cake! That’s something to celebrate.”

Originally, Mrs Hudson had entered 221b under the pretence of tidying up a bit. Sherlock had seen through it in seconds, a "thank you" mumbled by him devouring the fresh scones. If his landlady continues like this, Sherlock might even consume muesli one morning.

Stranger things have happened, like Sherlock Holmes on a date. Sherlock doesn't quite remember what made him mention that John has asked him out, but suddenly he's pleased.

A warm, fuzzy feeling. 

It needs to be shared with the world. Instinctively, he goes to his piano. Normally, it's another 20 minutes or so until his practise starts. Today, he improves again. For the second day in a row, his heart rules over his mind.

_ Maybe I should compose something for him _ , Sherlock muses. 

He will call it  _ John _ .   
  


* * *

  
  


For their date, John suggests that they should cook something together. Sherlock knew it: John Watson is a secret romantic. He wants to intervene but then he remembers that John is the expert when it comes to relationships. To follow his lead is surely advised.

Twenty minutes into planning the evening, Sherlock’s pretty sure that his reservations were accurate: John’s willing to throw in the towel. Yet, John’s also stubborn.

Therefore, Sherlock is pretty confident that John's star sign is Taurus, but he needs to get his hands on John’s birth certificate first. With it, he can find out John’s middle name too, something that John has hinted at but was irritatingly quiet about so far. (His best guess is Hamish, but Sherlock Holmes doesn’t guess.)

“John, we don’t even have all the ingredients.” Valid point, Sherlock believes. “And I’m banned from Tesco and you hate shopping. Remember your incident with the chip-and-pin-machine?”

“Greg can do it.”

“Who’s Greg?”

“Greg, my best friend Greg. I’ve told you about him, Sherlock.”

John sounds put off, so Sherlock rushes to clarify, “Oh, Graham. Yes, him. But isn’t George busy with solving murders?”

“You forget his name but not that he’s working with NSY?”

“Irrelevant. Names aren’t important.”

“Oh, should I prepare to be called Johann next?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. You’re important.”

  
  


* * *

Greg accompanies John to Tesco. His best friend doesn't ask, he is simply a constant presence next to him.

There is no question why John isn't using a cane after 7 years. No comment why John is shopping, and on a weekday during lunch break no less. Greg puts the purchases in the bags, not once asking why all items are bought twice.

John vows to himself that Sherlock is going to learn his best friend's name. 

Sherlock, who is pressing his ear to the door when John is uploading his part of the ingredients on the doormat of 221b.

He witnesses the best friend's first question for today: "All good, John?"

"Brilliant, Greg."

Tomorrow, Greg will find a lunch box containing the leftovers of tonight's meal on his doormat.

Cursing, because he will be late for work, he will pick it up. The post-it note will read: "Thank You, Greg".

The handwriting is unknown to him, but he will have a suspicion. After all, Gregory Lestrade is the smartest of the Yard.

* * *

  
  


It's a universally known fact that neither Sherlock Holmes nor John Watson can cook. To turn it into a real challenge, they decided to perform it in sync. In theory, it sounded reasonable: after all, they vowed to not see each other, and cooking blind-folded is borderline stupid. Sherlock might have tried it out, but John's doctor enough to put a foot down.

Therefore: cooking the same dish at the same time in two different locations by two men that cannot even make home-made pasta before.

What could go wrong? (Everything.)

It's almost ten when the bell of 221c rings. John is cranky. He wants to utter "piss off," when he spots the takeaway box on his doormat.

"It's from the chippy down the street. I got an extra portion because I composed their wedding song," Sherlock acts nonchalant. As a pianist, he has excellent hearing and therefore could deduce John Watson's return to their wall.

"Brilliant!"

Sherlock wants to reply, "Really, John? It's just fish-and-chips." Instead, he opts for, "You can tell the quality of the food from the door handle." 

Then he launches into an introduction of his map of London, only stopping for John's "Amazing!", "Fantastic" and "Brilliant".

* * *

Mrs Hudson listens to them in 221a for a while, until she thinks that she can leave her boys alone. She will clean up their messes in their kitchens tomorrow. Tonight, she indulges in a rerun of  _ Take Me Out - The Gay Edition. _

TBC


	6. The Fall

"Good morning, John!"

"Good morning, Sherlock!"

It's been a week and every morning starts the same. It should be routine by now, boring. But in reality, it sends a shiver through Sherlock's body. 

That he can call John by his name, and then count the ticking seconds until he hears his answer. Oh, the thrill. And how much Sherlock can deduce in John's voice; it's brilliant. John is never boring.

These days, Sherlock plays for him. 

John knows quite a lot about music. He's no Sherlock Holmes, acclaimed pianist and finalist for the prestigious scholarship, but he wasn't lying about his enthusiasm. The talk about their families is mostly evasive, but Sherlock secretly thanks John's father for introducing his son to the world of music.

James Watson might have been a bastard 9 times out of 10, but without his neglect, John Watson might not have been so determined to prove his father his worth. 

Both men have their scars, but they aren't broken. 

* * *

To understand how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson ended up here (here: euphemism for sex), you need to understand that Mrs Hudson is an Alto, which means that when she tries to sing the higher notes of _Diamonds are forever,_ it makes Sherlock Holmes’ ears bleed. It’s only reasonable that he texts a doctor. 

**Where have I heard that phrase before? Diamonds are forever? SH**

John suffers similarly, so approximately ten seconds after the first “forever”, Sherlock’s mobile pings.

**James Bond. Have you heard of James Bond?**

**I've heard of him, yes. SH**

**You haven't seen one, have you? Right, we're having a Bond night.**

It takes a while but for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes is a patient man, who waits until John’s swearing stops, and John Watson’s zoom session is a go. They have to switch off the camera, but it’s nice to listen to John’s commentary. 

Following John’s recommendation, they watch _Skyfall_. 

Sherlock can just stop himself to blurt out that it is illogical to start a movie series in the middle. Truth is that Sherlock has watched them all with Mycroft before. His brother had been obsessed with the 007 status and this special branch, and Sherlock secretly believed that the movie series had been formative for his later profession. Nowadays, he would not be too surprised if Mycroft Holmes turned out to be M.

All is well, until the scene. Sherlock silently curses himself for forgetting The Scene.

> Silva: Ooh, see what she's done to you.
> 
> Bond: Well, she never tied me to a chair.
> 
> Silva: Her loss. [begins tracing along Bond's chest with his finger]
> 
> Bond: Are you sure this is about M?
> 
> Silva: It's about her, and you, and me. You see we are the last two rats, we can either eat each other... [lascivious grin] ...or we can eat everyone else. Ah, you're trying to think back to your training. What's the regulation to cover this? Oh well... [strokes Bond's thighs] ... there's a first time for everything.
> 
> Bond: What makes you think this is my first time?

The Line echoes loud. Mrs Hudson has stopped her hovering as well as her sing-along. Leaving on the mic had been a bad idea.

His brain shortcutted. The noise leaves his mouth before he can stop everything.

Silence, awkward as fuck. 

Then, John’s voice, hesitant and more a whisper, “So, James Bond.”

Sherlock hums which John could interpret as “yes”. 

While Sherlock ponders if John has actually heard his reaction or if he should clarify or maybe add a, “maybe” or “do you mind”, or flee London immediately for an extended concert tour which he has always loathed but not as much as this situation, -- John starts to hum in return.

Sherlock’s a musician, but he’s baffled, so it takes him ten seconds or twelve to identify it as _Diamonds are forever_.

Laughter helps. 

Sherlock is amazed that they can resume watching the movie, sometimes giggling like schoolgirls, and teasing each other. Now, he has a new memory with _Skyfall_. One that he might even cherish more than the one with Mycroft. 

When John admits, while the end credits are rolling, that James Bond isn't doing much for him, but that the new Q isn't looking that bad, Sherlock is tempted to blurt out that he resembles the actor slightly. 

_Maybe it's a sign? That John would not be appalled by his physic?_

While he wants to rush into his mind palace and update this vital information in the room of John (which gets bigger every day, soon he'll get his wing, not that Sherlock minds), he realizes that he hasn't reacted to John's admission.

 _Foolish_ , he scolds himself. _John who's got a private side, who's got trust issues, who's been to war at least in his head, his John_.

Sherlock does the only thing he can think of: he hums _Diamonds are forever_ (his interpretation, while not being Soprana, isn’t off-key).

* * *

It’s well past midnight. London is asleep. Only Sherlock Holmes is awake, which isn’t unusual for him as he doesn’t sleep or speak for days on end, or at least until he has moved to Baker Street. In particular, since meeting John his erratic pattern had stopped as if his mere presence could ground him somehow. 

Most nights Sherlock has turned in around the time when he has been hearing the gurgling of the pipes, announcing that John’s in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. It has been a nightly routine now, so far only broken by John’s nightmares, for which _Für Elise_ has proven to be a soothing remedy. 

It startles him when Sherlock suddenly hears a sound.

Rattled, his heart pounding in his chest, he almost loops out of bed. 

For a fraction of a second, he fears that John’s been haunted by memories again, but then it becomes evident that the reason for the noise is different. 

John moans not because he’s in pain, far from it. 

Soon, Sherlock sports a sympathy boner. 

Sherlock knows that he has to put the brakes on, even without having a driving license. Yet, not even picturing Mycroft naked seems to do the trick because his transport betrays him and switches the body with James Bond in _Skyfall_. 

Blond-haired men, nerves of steel, ex-soldiers and still having a good moral compass are Sherlock’s weakness. It’s sordid and...,

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock bits into his fist to muffle the “JOHN!” when he orgasms. 

* * *

“So, how do you think he looks?”

“Hm, who?” 

It’s their usual meeting, two best friends chatting in 221a. Takeaway by Greg, curry this time. The TV is running in the background, some quiz shows or is it the news again? John doesn't care. It's just to give them a sense of privacy. TV is the signal for Sherlock that he can focus on his experiments, the AirPods with his music is optional. 

It’s a normal evening in Baker Street or it has been until now.

“Your neighbour, what’s his name…” Greg, that bastard, acts as if he needs to ponder about this. “Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?”

John responds with a quick nod, two can play this game. There’s not a blush creeping up his face, it’s the hot spices. It’s curry.

“So… this Sherlock Holmes. How do you picture him?” John grimaces that his best friend can interpret himself, because seriously, how old is he? 49 years, or 19? “Oh, you’ve googled him. I see.”

“What?” WHAT. “No, God, no.”

His friend believes that at last John H. Watson is crazy. “Why not, John? Don’t tell me you crashed your phone again?”

“No!” John isn’t that good with tech, he knows it. Greg knows it too and loves to rub in that fact.

“Okay…” Greg takes a sip of his beer. Canned, but needs must. “But why not?”

“Because that’s the rule.”

“The rule?”

“Greg, mate. Have you listened to anything I’ve said in the last couple of weeks?” 

It's a bit harsh, but John’s a bit hurt. This is Greg, and it’s about Sherlock. The two most important people in his life… and…

“Yes, I did. But rules need to be broken sometimes or bend a bit. Remember, you’ve got the rule 'chicks only', and now you’re bending over for your neighbour…”

“Jesus, Greg.” 

John doesn’t spit out his beer. And the cutlery just fell out of his hand into the curry, yikes. He’s got a tremor in his hand, or at least, until meeting Sherlock Holmes.

Before John can lash out; hurt, confused, something, Greg picks up the cutlery for him. Silently, he cleans them with his napkin. Then he pushes them into John’s hand. They were balled into fists, unconsciously by John. His cheeks burn.

“Sorry, John. That was out of the line. I just…” Greg mirrors him, playing with the cutlery. When John recognizes this, he cannot be dissociating. Small comfort. “I’m your best friend. And I want to help you, and it’s great that you’ve found him. Hell, I’ve got off with a few blokes myself. So…”

It’s an awkward laugh, fitting for this minefield. John’s gone to war already.

“Damn, Greg. I’m too old for this shit.”

“Says the man four years younger than me. What am I then, John, ancient?”

“No, my best friend.”

For some time, they continue eating their curry. John is relaxing, then Greg makes his second attack. “So, you don’t visualize him?”

“No, Greg.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Best friend, remember?”

“Good, well. Once or twice.” More like ten or twelve times, a day. Greg is grinning, he doesn’t believe him. John doesn’t care. “But I didn’t google him. That’s just…”

“Just…”

“Weird. It’s weird. Stalking or something, invasion of privacy, or something.”

“Something… sure, John.”

“You’re the copper, Greg. Shouldn’t you applaud me?”

“I’m your best friend, John. I want you to get laid.”

Drastic measures. John opens up another can of beer and pushes it into Greg’s hand.

It backfires royally as John’s a lightweight. Technically, he can handle his alcohol, but he gets chatty. When John’s babbling, a last sober thought arrives in John’s brain: the cheeky bastard counted on this. 

* * *

John Watson’s resolve to not look up Sherlock Holmes on the internet crumbles that night.

His traitorous body, inhibited by alcohol, spurs him into action. Before he knows it, John has opened his laptop and starts typing in the name in the search engine. He is telling himself that he will stop any minute now. That all he wants is some background information. Soon it’s just the one recommended-for-you-playlist of his best performances. By the end, it’s all the photos John can find.

It’s well past midnight when it crashes down on John: that he broke the one promise he made to Sherlock.

Sherlock had only pursued to engage in this arrangement because the thought of a blind date excited him. 

Now, the balance is off-kilter: John knows how he looks, but Sherlock’s still kept in the dark.

The option to let Sherlock look John up on the internet as well is nil. Besides the fact that a man even less a genius like his neighbour would be caught on the break of trust, it wouldn’t be the same anymore: no photos means no photos. 

Thanks to John’s idiocy they would morph from blind date to a weird way of online dating? John isn’t sure what the proper term would be, social distance dating? However, it’s pointless anyway as John’s pretty confident that Sherlock would break up with him anyway. 

(If one can break up in such an arrangement in the first place? Probably, never talk to each other again, and that makes John’s heartache.)

The major error that John makes that night is not that he looked Sherlock up on the internet, but that he decides to hide the fact that he did. He reasons with himself that Sherlock wouldn't find it out. It would give him time. John could use this time to come up with a better explanation then _I was drunk, lonely and I wanted you so much_.

  
TBC  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is the transcript scene of the movie, "Skyfall".  
> If you asked yourself, did Ade twisted TRF into a James Bond wank-fest... moi?  
> When you want to tell me about your memories of said movie or episode, or dunno, your fannish crushes, do tell :D
> 
> And yes, I am aware that this sex scene is the continued scheme of IDIOTS and their very own Arrangement, and believe me, I wished I could just write a "normal" sex scene but those two are so stubborn. However, fear not, my lovely readers, the wall will fall! I wrote it already, and my amazing betas can confirm it, so there's hope.


	7. The Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title "If Baker Street Could Talk" makes an appearance, also the demons of John Watson. Every story has a Reichenbach, as well as almost every fairytale has a good-old-fashioned villain. Sadly, so far the two men picture themselves not exactly as princes. But who knows... maybe a true loves kiss will fix it all in the end?
> 
> Lastly: WELCOME BACK and THANK YOU for your patience, understanding & encouraging words. It means A LOT (also 2020 is A LOT).

The morning is beautiful, the air crispy and clean. With the sun slowly making its way through the fog, London is painted golden. The streets are unusually quiet as if tourists and Londoner alike are in awe of nature. 

Standing in front of the window, overlooking Baker Street, Sherlock muses if this feeling of calmness is shared with all the inhabitants. Maybe even the Victorians who once lived in 221b had been breathing easier with such a vivid tableau. 

The icy white slowly morphs into green, the grey shines silver for a while, and then, the colours pop into life, and with it, all rushes in once again: alive.

Up next, Sherlock listens to the pipes in the building. He deduces that Mrs Hudson is taking a shower, and approximately 20 minutes later, preparing breakfast. For a moment, he pictures her dancing along with the music from the radio. He wants to criticize her taste as he cannot overhear pieces, but he ends up rolling his eyes with affection. 

To stop himself from humming along, Sherlock closes the window quickly and fetches his violin. Some composing is in order!

Sometime later, the notes are flowing out of him. It cannot be helped, apparently, on a morning like today. 

Sherlock Holmes can see it now: Baker Street during Victorian Times. 

Carriages rumbling over the cobblestones. Boys shouting out headlines and urging the bypassers to buy the newspapers. Street urchins begging for food, “a penny, please, mister.” The bells of the nearby church ringing, or could one hear Big Ben from here as well, announcing the full hour? They all get their theme, loud and joyful, a bit messy, and so alive.

The sound of home, and it’s barely 9 when Sherlock is creating the leitmotif.

The fog, more yellow than golden. The sizzling of the electric wires, or gaslight lanterns still? The dirt, the smell, the foreign noises. 

London: the melting pot of a nation. One doesn’t need to be a detective to deduce so much already from the appearance of a person. All one need is to observe. 

Sherlock can appreciate the waistcoat and bowler, while he understands the hate about the restriction of a corset. He wants to give the women a voice, to make their lives count, and so he does. Yet, he doesn’t forget the men and all-in-between. His vision knows no upstairs-downstairs, no inside-the-house and in the public eye, the generation gap, or the battle of the sexes. It might sound like utopia, but shouldn’t the arts imagine the world as it should be?

And when the past and present are morphing together, a future reshapes itself, and in it,

he finds that even in 1895,

there’s always the two of them

...

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

For a second, the pianist pictures his partner with a moustache and reigns himself in. If they had lived in 1895, he would have to shave it off. (Non-negotiable).

Sherlock should be alarmed, but he is feeling energetic. 

They cannot call each other by their first name in public back then, it would be “Holmes” and “Watson” always, except in case of great emergency. Maybe there would have been a near-death-experience, one time in which they could see the love reflected in their eyes? 

“Watson!” A beat of silence. “Tell me, John, that you’re not hurt!” 

Another second, a heartbeat, then: relief. 

“I’m alright, old boy.” 

It might be 10 or 11 o’clock when Sherlock tries to recall proper endearments that could be interpreted as simply platonic, such as “loyal assistant”, “lifelong companion”, “faithful biographer”, “my dear Watson” and the answering, “my dear Holmes”. 

Then Sherlock ponders (for research purposes only): Would there be a similar giggling fit in Victorian London, as John and he has shared so many nights by now? Maybe Watson and Holmes would be laughing like schoolboys too? Behind closed doors that had to be possible. Sherlock rushes to add some notes, imitating the echoes of nights past.

221b wouldn’t be that different in the 19th century, surely. Sherlock estimates that the wallpaper is a relic. How many nights do Victorian Sherlock Holmes and Victorian John Watson, two confirmed bachelors, share a brandy by the fireplace? Two seats and mismatched cushions, mirroring each other and radiating domesticity, as content as two men can be. The music soars alongside Sherlock’s heart. 

Sherlock almost falls over his own feet, when he runs over to his desk to scribble down the title: _If Baker Street Could Talk_.

It’s almost noon when Sherlock Holmes smiles proudly. At last, he has found the centrepiece for his concert.

He makes a vow: he is going to win this scholarship and then he is going to ask John Watson out for real.

When he is hurrying to meet with Molly, he whistles his own leitmotif, _The Game is On_.

* * *

  
  


When John wakes up at nine, he wants to shut his eyes immediately. Alarmed, he double-checks the time, but all the inferior watch on his nightstand does is to show 09:01 now. 

His head hurts, his shoulder aches, his vision is blurred. Hungover, one doesn’t need to be a doctor to diagnose it. It’s twice stupid for an ex-doctor tough. 

The state of things explains to a degree why he overslept for the first time in his adult years. The reason behind it all remains a mystery still. 

John’s mouth tastes death, and he estimates that his breath isn’t better. Dehydration made his skin more wrinkly, adding more years in his face. He needs a shave, a shower, followed by a strong coffee instead of a cup of tea today. 

His duvet clings uncomfortably on his body, sweat and something he desperately hopes isn’t sperm, and just yikes. 

On his way to the loo, John almost falls because of the pile of clothes on the floor. 

Seriously, what happened last night? 

John H. Watson isn’t used to messy, as he is far too accustomed to the neat military lifestyle. Frankly, he’s alarmed to own so many things, having believed to be able to stuff his personal belongings in a duffel bag in case of an emergency. 

With every step, the feeling of being out of loop increases. 

Something isn’t right, or Johnny has lost it at last.

When he enters his bathroom, barely avoiding a collision with the door, he instinctively switches on the lights. Barely containing a wounded sound, he rushes to turn them off. He breathes out, relieved (or something). 

Twilight welcomes him. 

Under the spray he lets his head fall, and yet, today, it takes longer until his shoulders are finally dropping. John uses all the hot water as well as far more body wash and shampoo than normal. It is if he wants to subconsciously clean himself, get rid of the dirt of yesterday, and not only on the surface level. 

When he wants to yell in frustration, John decides to call Ella instead. Maybe she can clear the fog inside his head.

* * *

"How do you picture him?"

"Who?" Sherlock is only half-listening to Molly. 

Both ordered a salad, Molly with tuna, and Sherlock with salmon. The homemade lemonade isn't half-bad. The restaurant is within walking distance of St Bart's, the only remaining object from Molly's former occupation. Before Molly switched to managing a café, they had met here every Tuesday. Monday being the day most dead bodies came to the morgue. The crème brulée is a dream, the perfect pick-me-up to finally get the smell of decay out of your nostrils.

Nowadays, Molly has to arrange more to meet him here. H. M. H. is an easier spot but from time to time they both need something else. To leave the well-known only to realize it is the one. So Molly and Sherlock return to Apple Tree Yard. Once in a blue moon, and afterwards, Molly welcomes H. M. H. with a big smile, loosened shoulders, and greets her girlfriend with a kiss in broad daylight. 

Normally, Sherlock relishes meeting with Molly. Today, however, his mind is elsewhere. He is in an unusually good mood as well thanks to the breakthrough in composing. _If Baker Street Could Talk_ , he likes the title. But Molly’s known him for years, she'll understand.

"John."

Instantly, Sherlock's focus shifts. Alert, he babbles, repeating as if he's got Anderson's IQ, "John?" 

"Yes, Sherlock. Thanks for joining me in the present." Molly's teasing him. She threw a napkin-ball at him before to get his attention. "John. Remember John?"

Stupid question. John. Neighbour John. Doctor John. Soldier John. His John.

"You're doing it again." Cutlery on his plate, he's got two forks now. Oh, Molly's still talking. "Sherlock!"

"Ouch, that hurts."

"Not my fault, genius. I tried to talk with you for 10 minutes. No luck, so more drastic measures. You had it coming." Molly grins, and Sherlock wants to throw the napkin back. But that would be childish (but maybe worth it).

"What is it, dear Molly?" He looks at her expectantly. If her interruptions of his daydreaming aren't worth it, the napkin will fly.

"John."

Her napkin is safe on his plate.

"What about him?"

"How do you think he looks?"

"Huh…"

"Come on, Sherlock. I'm your best friend. You can tell me…"

"..."

"You're not telling me that you've never pictured him?" Blinking eyes, is there Für Elise playing in H. M. H.? Sherlock's thinking something, probably. He'll form the words any minute now. "Not even naked?"

Or not.

* * *

John’s in A Mood when he returns to 221c around noon.

His emergency appointment with Ella hasn’t helped at all, as he cannot recall anything from last night. Instead, Ella had wanted to talk about his alcohol abuse and how its potential ties with his family background, and frankly, it had been too early to talk about Harry or, God forbid, his dad. Before he would talk about him, John would need far stronger stuff, and, no surprise here, Ella hadn’t been on board with such jokes. She had started an extensive elaboration at his attempt of humour to hide his emotions, and at that point, John might have stormed out of the office.

It wasn’t his best decision or his best behaviour, and he isn’t proud of himself, but he cannot be arsed yet to call her to apologize. So far, he’s in A Mood and believes that as a therapist - and his for years - she should be well accustomed to The Watson Temper. 

So, instead, John drags the shopping bags over the floor. When he bangs them on each of the 27 steps, he feels bad for Mrs Hudson and partly for the food, but he needs some stress relief, and another night of cheap booze was out. 

Back in the day, it had been Rugby, but his old shoulder reminded him of disrupted sleep. Sadly, the muscles couldn’t talk in a human capacity. 

So, his head hurts and his body is sore, and he still hasn’t got a clue why. 

John has bought a ready-meal from Tesco, Mac & Cheese actually, and he feels only partly guilty when he almost throws it into the microwave. 

“You’re punishing yourself, Johnny”, Harry Watson would say. John can hear his twin sister sing-song-voice all too well in his head. “Find out what you did wrong first. You can beat yourself up all you want later. But find out if you deserve it first.”

“But I can’t bloody remember”, John Watson wants to scream. 

Furious, full of rage. Oh, how he wants to scream. 

From early on, whenever John Watson’ mind betrayed him, he saw red. Nothing should betray him, and if his own body and mind were playing tricks on him? Who else to trust? He needed to hide who he was, he had to be always on alert, one couldn’t be too careful. Long before the guns aimed for him, it was the always ready fist of his drunken father. And you didn’t want to get hit, in particular, when you were daydreaming about a male body. What had come first? The red of the blood, real and fleeting, or the metaphorical, haunting and screaming. 

When the mess that looks more like glue and dried paint with some unidentified objects in it is done, John forces it down his throat. When it burns his mouth, he reasons with himself that now he can less compare its taste to the real deal. 

Regardless, John bins the rest and stops himself at the last minute to not throw away the leftover of Mrs Hudson’s two nights ago too. Yet, he feels that hasn’t earned it. He stores the homemade Mac & Cheese back in the fridge.

For hours John programs action scenes. They get bloody today, so the company will love it. They never fully grasped the depth of John’s depravity, and some days he’s relieved. When he first had sketched the outlines years ago during a patch of really bad days, he had been terrified that at the following presentation everyone would look at him and would send for a therapist. Instead, he had been offered a pay rise. 

When John had seen clearer, he had used said money to book his first appointment for Ella. It’s a double-edged sword, his job, and hell, not only on good days he ponders if quitting would be an alternative (in more than one way). 

It’s the thought about getting dark and that soon Sherlock would return and they hopefully share a meal and talk through the wall again that makes John stop in his tracks. 

Sherlock!

John isn’t sure if the scream is only in his mind.

Suddenly, he feels as if he jumped down a huge building, and some twisted part of his brain filled it with St Bart’s. 

For a second, he wants to giggle, hysterical, as if he finally lost his marbles, while he has only lost... him.

Because he will, won’t he? Sherlock Holmes is the best thing that has happened to him in a long time, and there are things John has wanted to tell Sherlock, but it is too late now. 

What does Harry always say? Every story needs an old-fashioned villain. It was her comfort line, knowing that her baby brother loves fairytales, and all kinds of stories really, from a young age. Johnny Watson had needed it, the adventures and the great escapes, when you were faced with the grim reality of their life. When John had been Johnny, Harry and John had painted their father as the villain, but now, as an adult, John didn’t need a mirror to discover the ugly truth: he had been his downfall all along

...

and he had dragged Sherlock Holmes with him.

  
TBC  
  



	8. Dinner With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve... what A Year. I'm not going to blabber and simply say, "Thank You for following me and my little story. It was definitely one of the few bright spots." 
> 
> This chapter is basically an evening with friends, comfort food and whine, with the twist that the groups are separated. Ironically (even I didn't know it when I plotted the fic), it's the same for many of us tonight. To sum it up: I wish you a great evening and as much as fun as possible (at least as much as those five "adults" have :)) 
> 
> All the best,  
> stay safe & sane & healthy,  
> Ade

While John is saying, “Go out with me”, Sherlock is saying “Meet my friends.”

Both men say it at the same time: 12:01 am. Jinx it, but they’re laughing already. 

First, John wants to make light of it, so he initially opts for, “You have friends?” However, it would be harsh and also projecting: after all, it would be a valid question for him too. Therefore, instead, he replies, “Good. But then you’re going to meet mine, too.”

“You have friends?” 

It’s Sherlock; there are two peas in a pod. Ironically, Mrs Hudson has made the thing with the peas again too. Before answering, he drugs into the dish with gusto. Some days he cannot stop wondering since when his life resembles a Romantic Comedy instead of a Drama. John desperately hopes for a Happy Ending.

“Just the one: Greg. You’re going to like him.” 

“Will he bring some boxes with cold cases along?”

“You like his job, don’t you?”

“What should I say, John? If I had not been a pianist, I might have become a detective. Mycroft certainly preferred this profession over being a pirate.”

“You’re going to tell me about it one time…” It’s so easy to let that slip. John’s heart is beating faster, afraid of letting more things slip, and not only about his break of trust. 

He has seen this villain before, facing it in the mirror in the morning. There were too many open and ambiguous endings in his life before, and he doesn’t want to be into exile again. No more stepping out the side-door. 

“It’s quite possible that you’re going to listen to the best of tonight already. Considering that Molly is invited.” 

John gulps down most of his sparkling water before answering. It’s hot outside; it’s the beginning of July. The splash of lemon, a recommendation by Mrs Hudson, tinkling pleasantly in his mouth.

“Oh, right. Will Molly's fiancée come as well? What’s her name again? I know you only refer to her as ‘Hopkins’ but that cannot be real, Sherlock. So spill the beans, or do you want to embarrass me tonight?”

“If… then we’re both going to be embarrassed as I don’t know her name either. Must have deleted it.”

“It’s Greg all over again, I can’t believe it. Or I wouldn’t if not speaking about you. Let me guess: you know some random fact about her, that isn’t ‘clutter’ instead?” John wants to huff out in annoyance, and if Harry had pulled up such a stunt, she would have got it. Alas, Sherlock is different and kinda cute. “Like… dunno, her favourite dish?”

“Why should I use precious space in my mind palace for such unimportant information, John? That makes no sense. Her apple pie with crumble and a hint of cinnamon is delicious, however. Maybe she brings something for tonight. Gifts, isn’t that a thing? I must ask Mrs Hudson to make whipped cream. I cannot stand the industrial product from Tesco.”

“Of course, you can’t.” John should have ended with, “you utter nutter.” Instead, something else wants to slip in, something dangerous like _love_. Alarmed, he rushes, “I’ll ask her. More polite. Will do it while I ask for better plates. My kitchenette is not up to a proper dinner.”

For a second, there’s just some mumbling behind the wall. Probably Sherlock in his mind palace, he tends to think out loud. 

John is already half-way to his kitchen to check for clean cutlery when Sherlock’s voice brings him back.

“Good idea, John. If you’re at it, could you be so kind to ask for three plates? And probably glasses. Maybe some for wine too, and what are those called for whiskey? Tumblers? Righto. Hopkins likes Whiskey with a splash of lemon. And whatever you or she consider necessary. I was composing all day, so I couldn’t be arsed to clean the dishes. Thank God for doors. I’ll just shut it, and no one will be the wiser.”

A second of silence and John hopes that Sherlock reframes his order because Jesus, he believed himself to be messy when Sherlock continues: “Or to be accurate: Molly will know it immediately and don’t care. The most I will get is a comment like, ‘Lucky us that you’re only doing the music for H. M. H.’”

“Sherlock.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not your servant, nor is Mrs Hudson our housekeeper. You’ve got hours until the guests arrive. Act your age and clean 221b. If you want I can tune on the radio with shitty music that makes you do the chores at lightning speed.”

“Those playlists are fake, John. Whatever they claim, they’re not optimizing your productivity. Believe me, I’m working as a consultant for some.”

“As a resident Sherlock ‘The Pianist’ Holmes expert: I’ll pick such a horrendous playlist that you’re hurrying along so that I’ll switch it off as soon as possible.”

“John ‘The Gamer’ Watson, you’re positively evil.”

“I was a soldier, we got shit done. Also, it’s Captain Watson.”

* * *

All afternoon Sherlock has been toying with the idea to invite them all to H.M.H. It would be the normal, more reasonable choice, but who wants to go for normal anyway. So, it’s decided: in 221b, there would be Sherlock, Molly and Hopkins, while over at 221c, Greg and John would join their unusual dinner.

They wanted to invite Mrs Hudson too, but she had just shrugged and said, “This is something for the young people. Don’t mind me. I’ll just hush by to bring you some food.”

Which had led to the question of food and drinks. Molly had offered to cook but she shouldn’t be bothered. “Be here, that’s all.” The “hold my hand” went unsaid. Sherlock doesn’t know why he’s anxious. It makes no sense, him being emotional. 

First, he knows John by now. Second, it’s their second official date. And the 21st date if one counts their almost daily routine. Which Sherlock does not, technically. And third, it’s no one unknown, so Molly, Hopkins and this mysterious Greg are there with them? Dinner with friends, isn’t that what people call it?

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? Because before moving to Baker Street he hadn’t had friends, except one: Molly Hooper. Now, he has another mummy, and he hopes that Mrs Hudson will never meet Violet Holmes, as well as a… John. Who happens to have a best friend too. Therefore, it should be logical that when one can invite a friend, the other should be able to. 

Maybe it’s the sheer number: five people. Six if one counts Mrs Hudson. Which one should, always.

But it’s six adults in three flats, so that’s manageable but also weird. And maybe that’s the real issue: that John would wake up at last, and realise how weird, strange, freakish Sherlock Holmes is? Who meets friends via a wall? Who dates via a wall? 

Maybe that’s the dealbreaker for John? So far, there seem to be no limits to John Watson, but this arrangement might be.

Instead of freaking out more, Sherlock focuses on coiffing his curls.

* * *

Greg doesn't want to come per se but drags his sorry arse to Baker Street out of guilt. As he is a decent fellow he recognises his mistake: he shouldn’t have pressured John into looking up Sherlock. 

Therefore tonight is about making amends, while also getting cheap food. Most of his paycheck goes to his cheating soon-to-be ex-wife. Moreover, at work, they’re dealing with a high-profile case, so he didn’t have any time to grab more than a sandwich during lunch break.

Still running late he changes in his office, some minutes after 7 o'clock. Tonight, he is wearing all shades of grey, with his button-down in coal as the highlight. Putting on his anthracite jacket on his way out, he almost collides with Anderson. 

“Just some glasses, boss, and they’re giving you a full-desk job.” 

The forensic probably thinks it as a compliment, but Greg is more the action type. More paperwork, hell no. Curtly nodding towards Anderson, which can be interpreted as a “thank you” and “See you tomorrow”, he almost jogs out of the station. 

“Bullocks, I’m late.” Sitting in his car, manoeuvring out the parking lot — “Jesus!” — and wondering how they all managed to get a driving licence as well as a gun, he quickly gave himself a look over in the mirror. “Damn, I should have shaved.”

Ruggedly handsome is his style tonight. 

“Calm down, man. You’re not going to meet anyone…” It’s 07:32 pm when Greg Lestrade gives himself the last pep-talk before hitting the city.

* * *

It’s 8 o’clock when the bell rings for the second time. 

The first being 5 minutes prior: Greg Lestrade arrived, a silver fox. Sherlock took a peek at John’s best friend when the man - he estimated his age mid-50s - made slowly his way up to 221c. He looked _good_. 

Sherlock isn’t jealous, _no_.

He certainly considers John’s best friend attractive, while he can admit that he is handsome. It’s only an observation that this Greg Lestrade will age like a fine wine. Which makes Sherlock hunt down 221b for a good bottle.

The second he exclaims, “Got it“, the bell rings, and he almost drops it unto the tiled kitchen floor. Thank God for quick reflexes. Sherlock is neither cursing nor blushing when “I’m coming” slips his lips. 

Opening the door with a bit more force than necessary, he is face to face with a grinning Molly. 

“Sorry, Sherlock. It’s just us. But if you want John to be over, you just need to ring the other bell.” 

“Thank you for your input, Molly.” A hug. 

“I can draw you a map if you like. Sneak it into your recent wank folder, I heard, they feature soldiers once more.”

Sherlock is not beet-red when he’s dragging Molly and Hopkins inside 221b.

They are almost stumbling over the threshold, space limited. If John is overhearing them from 221c, it would be giggling, laughter and swear words now.

Molly acting all innocent throws her coat over the nearest surface. A scarf follows seconds later. "Sherlock! You’re lucky that you’re my best friend. Otherwise…"

And Sherlock mumbling, "I’m lucky…" while replying more louder, "Cut into pieces, oh, boiled probably, then shred in the new machine…" Alarmed faces, he winks, "Welcome, Stella. I am the mad man, your fiancée has mentioned before."

Hopkins is a chubby woman, wearing glasses and a broad smile. When Molly is small, Hopkins is tiny. They are standing in the doorframe, small and tiny, and Sherlock is jealous for a second: he wants something like them, for him and John. 

* * *

In a different part of London, at 8 pm sharp. 

One has to understand that Mycroft Holmes worries about his brother _constantly_. Therefore he simply wants to check on him. The older Holmes will admit that he is a bit curious: a dinner with several people but separated through a wall? Did Sherlock develop an interest in science as in a weird experiment in social distancing?

When Mycroft heard about the concept yesterday he feared for a second that Sherlock had found a new dealer. Thankfully Anthea reminded him that he had paid them all off except the ones Sherlock had done so himself. This agenda had been The Holmes’ Brother's very own version of chess, and it had been even better than winning against Sherlock twelve times in a row, age 15. 

If it wasn’t drugs, what should be the alternative? 

Friendship has been a foreign concept, with rarely an exception. So far, one female named Molly Hooper. Victor Trevor had come and gone, with Mycroft cleaning after the mess. 

Their family consists of five people: Mummy, Father, Mycroft, Sherlock and Eurus. There will be six people (himself and Mrs Hudson, who one should always count) in Baker Street tonight. Six people who will be eating, drinking and talking; maybe some of them will be laughing or joking or even kissing. 

Mycroft is baffled, so he’s going to investigate. 

Just like Sherlock wanted to be a detective at one point (after pirate and before beekeeper), Mycroft imagines himself to be quite a capable Gentleman Spy, codename M. 

Sitting in the backseat of one of his limousines, twirling his umbrella, Mycroft Holmes mumbles, “Curious, this soldier fellow. He could be the maker for my brother or make him worse than ever.”

Athena, navigating the black, sleek car routinely through London’s rush hour, drives on. 

* * *

It's 08:10 pm when the food gets delivered.

“What did you order, John?” Sherlock inquires, and by that time Molly and Hopkins have gotten used to the talk through the wall. Stella didn’t bat an eyelash anymore, continuing to uncork a bottle of red.

“You’re our resident genius, Sherlock. Deduce it.”

“Pizza, John.”

“Good, but I'd hoped that you will go deeper.”

Molly and Stella turn to each other, their eye rolls turning into fond smiles, both thinking alike, “those two idiots.”

“OH! John! You’re brilliant.”

Stella is close to utter, “Get a room, you two.” So Molly takes the bottle from her, kisses her on the mouth until all thoughts have vanished. Queen Molly!

Sherlock, meanwhile, is towering over the boxes. Steaming hot and smelling delicious. 

“Let’s start with the obvious, shall we: there are three pizza boxes, and two inhibit a particular smell. My guess is garlic oil. However, as I rarely guess and garlic is rather distinct, and we have exactly two people in 221b who don’t mind if their significant other is smelling of garlic when they exchange kisses, it’s rather obvious that those two boxes are for Molly and Hopkins. The rest is easy: two of them have hand-written “meat” on it. Which makes the third one the vegetarian-friendly, so garlic oil, lots of veg and possibly various sorts of cheese? The first pizza box is for Stella Hopkins. And knowing the particular pizza restaurant’s menu, I would say, it’s Florentina.”

While there’s some clattering noise, then some whooping, a nonchalant baritone emerges, “It was rather elementary. They went to Tuscany for their first sex holiday. The _sentiment_.”

“Sherlock!” A man’s voice. Amused, but stern. 

“SHERLOCK!” An older woman’s voice from somewhere below, sounding scandalized but also clearly entertained. 

“Sherlock.” A younger woman's voice, all humour, “I’ll grab my pizza, shall I? At least then I won’t get more cranky because of my low sugar level.” Opening from another pizza box, a sound of approval. “You know Sherlock, what also should work very well if this delicious round of salt, fat and sugar won’t work? Sex comes highly recommended. Ask any doctor, or don’t you have one next door? Surely, John...”

There is some crashing noise, giggles and then something that sounds quite like squeaks. If John had been in 221b, he would witness some drastic action: Sherlock shoving some big chunk of pizza into his best friend’s mouth. All is fair in… and sometimes you have to work with Goat’s cheese, mozzarella, caramelised onion, spinach, red onion, tomato and garlic oil on a Classic base, or short, Padana for Molly Hooper.

Quite pleased with himself, and the women with their pizzas, Sherlock picks up his own. It’s Hot Honey, and for a second he toys with the idea to spill the tale about this rather odd choice. Yet, he feels somehow shy, not ready to share his dreams about the rather distant future. Maybe, someday.

He inhales the smell of Calabrese and pepperoni sausage, Roquito peppers, tomato, mozzarella, basil and Gran Milano cheese, and in particular, the scent of honey. When he had been alone, he would even try to deduce its origin. Honey and bees are such an interesting field of study!

Sherlock is just inspecting the thin Romana base (not that he expects it to be burned, one can simply deduce a lot from it, not unlike the floor in a room: temperature, time, some level of experience and the oven which was used) when he hears John’s voice.

“Amazing!” John’s voice is full of admiration. “Could you take a guess what we’ve got as well?”

It’s more difficult as he hadn’t seen what the delivery guy had brought over to 221c, but Sherlock wants to impress John. Observation, Deduction and Conclusion are a serious science and not a party trick, and yet, The Pianist wants to play.

“Let’s see: Graham is non-vegetarian or vegan, certainly, no gluten-free type. He wants his beef and doesn’t opt for seafood instead. Nothing too fancy but spicy, but with a twist, after all, it’s a dinner. Looking at the online menu of the pizzeria you’ve ordered, my best guess would be Sloppy Guiseppe.”

“Brilliant.” 

One could hear a whistle, that had to be the ominous Greg. “You told me that he’s clever…”

Before Sherlock could reply, maybe mock sternly with, “clever” because he hates it, “Clever Sherlock” as if he’s a circus pony doing tricks. Molly intervents, “How about John?”

“What’s with him… Oh! You mean can I deduce what he’s ordered even though I've never met him? Could I deduce what he likes just by simply talking to him? That’s clever.”

His eyes are alight. He turns around, imitating something like a waltz in the living room, and after the last twirl, he almost shouts: “Barbacoa!”

There’s silence for a second, then there’s a rush of applause.

Molly spots that his best friend’s cheeks are reddening. It’s because of the heat, surely. She smirks, and sees Stella whispering, “praise kink.”

When Sherlock spots the extra camembert on his pizza (how could he overlook _that_?), he snorts. 

* * *

For the next 30 minutes or so they all eat in silence. John and Greg in 221c on an impro sofa that happened to be his bed during the night, but those two old friends are used to it by now. Also, the cushions and the knitted blanket are extra comfy. 

The women are sitting and halfway cuddling on the sofa. Every so often, a kiss is shared. And Sherlock is Molly’s best friend, but he envies her a tiny little bit. To be so casual, so open about their love, seems suddenly not altogether bad. 

He sinks deeper into his chair. 

Woman’s instinct or gaydar or best friend sonar, who knows? Molly looks up and sees him. She frowns, “This one is new.”

“I wouldn’t consider _Le Corbusier_ exactly new, the term you’re looking for is a pioneer of modern architecture and interior design?”

“You don’t say, Sherlock. However, correct me if I am wrong but there are two chairs now, and one is not _Le Corbusier_.”

“Your point being?”

“Since when do you go for mismatched chairs? What happened to your old one? Don’t tell me it ended up like your Chesterfield in uni?”

While both women inspect the carpet with growing alarm and glee, Molly stage-whispers to her fiancée: “Set it on fire.” 

"I rearranged them.“ Sherlock's rolling of his eyes should apparently indicate the obvious. "So I can sit closer to John in a more comfortable chair.“

"Those are two chairs," Molly points out.

Not willing to admit that he imagines John at his side and that he pictures him as being fond of a Union Jack cushion, Sherlock comments: “I need a place to put the empty dishes and the like.”

They don’t believe him, but at least, they don’t interrogate him further because the bell rings.

Sherlock is relieved. At least, until he opens the door.

  
  
TBC


	9. The Gays Keep Winning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting of friends and family continues, and (being) different proves once more to be the new normal.

“Mycroft! What are you doing here? Leaving Pall Mall? Is England falling? And I thought the Brexit deal was _working_ , shall we say.”

“Good Evening, brother dear. You know how it is, Sherlock: I worry about you constantly. And this gathering of people that isn’t you, is it? Turn a new leaf at your age? Should we expect a happy announcement next week?”

“Piss of, Mycroft. Stick your gigantic nose somewhere else!”

For good measure, Mycroft replies, “Don’t pretend to have read 1,246 pages.”

So far so good. Mycroft is just leaving, when a voice emerges from 221c. “Oi, you two, shut it. Come on, be nice, Sherlock. Hand over a slice of pizza to Mycroft, you know how your brother gets when his sugar level is low.”

Mycroft is too shocked to be affronted. “Th-that won’t be necessary.” Finding his upbringing again, “Thank you for your consideration. Doctor Watson, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Eat the pizza, Mycroft.” With a strange glimmer in his eyes, his brother adds, “Look, it even has extra cheese.”

* * *

When Mycroft appears at 09:36 pm, Greg flirts with him immediately. _Johnny’s Sherlock got an older brother_. As a copper one needs to multitask, and eating delicious pizza while testing the water isn’t that kind of hardship. 

Greg cannot help himself. He’s just a bloke, it surely is in his DNA. It alarms his best friend who’s still trying to grasp this concept of bisexuality. Really, for a doctor, Dr John H. Watson is an idiot. 

At least, Greg can use his professional skills for his private life from time to time and has no squirms to do so tonight: thanks to his training he can picture Mycroft quite accurate. As a lawyer, Mycroft Holmes certainly wears a bespoke suit, and instantly, Greg wants him to lose his cravat. 

He isn’t 100% sure if a man who insists to call him Gregory would carry an umbrella, but if that’s the case, one could use it for some kink shit. Greg is such a bastard worth liking that he would love to see Mycroft blush and stutter.

“So hot”, he wants to whisper. “Let me see you.”

And the so-called iceman would melt: “Yes, but only for you.”

Maybe Greg could be thrown in a “good boy.” Maybe his Mycroft likes to see his gun and inspect the handcuffs? Find out if everything is in working order...

* * *

When John catches on that Greg is flirting with Mycroft Holmes, he isn't jealous. 

He has never been jealous over his best friend's better looks and he certainly has never lusted after his arse either ( _possibly_ ). Nor has he been jealous over his pulling record ( _probably_ ); and he wouldn't start tonight ( _hopefully_ ). 

Furthermore, John knows that he is acting unfairly. He knows it because Greg is his best friend who happens to be in the middle of a messy divorce. When someone deserves happiness it's him, and no, not because John knows that Greg would say the same about him. 

Maybe it's simply because John hasn't done this since Mary: meeting friends and family. It's a big step, and yes, this has to be it: panic mode. 

Yeah, panic sounds so more like the John Watson he knows. This is a version of himself he wants to overcome, so damn, he's going to pat his best friend's shoulder and will say, "Go get him, tiger."

In a minute or so. Maybe when he comes back from the loo. The night is young, it's only a quarter to 10.

* * *

_The Gays keep winning_ , that’s Stella Hopkins’ daily memo; tonight’s event proves it: she wishes the besotted men and the idiots in love a very pleasant evening. She’s also going to celebrate later and no solo sex, at least, for Molly and her.

Some days Hopkins likes to gossip and to comment from the sideline, but tonight she is only grateful that she’s got an ex-pathologist-turned-coffee shop owner as a fiancée. 

So she takes Molly’s hand, draws some random lines, which her clever girl will translate as “I love you” soon. When they first met, Molly had made it her mission to learn the basics about her mother tongue. Stella had never asked her too, but Molly had simply surprised her and continued to do so. 

It is a small black hand that fits perfectly into a slightly bigger white one. 

They’re both not really into nail polish but tonight Hopkins had opted for a matching tone to her dress. Molly had been in charge, while Hopkins had been the one commanding. They’ve almost been too late for dinner because her dominant voice always gets her Molly going. Her blush had outshone any makeup. 

_Gosh_ , her love is beautiful, inside and out. 

So Hopkins puts a kiss on her fiancée’s palm, drapes her arm loosely over Molly’s shoulder, and in this process cuddles up closer. They’re going to enjoy the show.

* * *

When it's time for coffee or tea with cake, Molly nudges Sherlock on to play something for them. At this point, 10 o'clock is approaching. 

It would certainly please John, so it is decided.

He has been unusually quiet tonight, but Sherlock refuses to be alarmed. They're both private men, John even more so than himself. Greg and Mycroft flirting through the wall haven't helped matters. It surely has made him as uneasy as himself. It was their thing: The Arrangement. Maybe it had all been a mistake to invite them all to Baker Street, but the evening isn't over yet. 

Music has been their language before, and so Sherlock Holmes hopes to not be a show-, but a heartstopper. 

It is thanks to the special quality of the house that Mrs Hudson can announce, “Baker Street Proudly Presents: Mr Sherlock Holmes.” 

There is a round of cheering and clapping hands to be heard in 221a, 221b and 221c; it might be an unusual concert hall but Sherlock has never felt more at home.

Who cares that Mycroft raises his eyebrows? Sherlock just smirks, and then: the metaphorical curtain raises; he is ready to begin; oh, yes, the game is so on.

He hears John’s echo: _Chopin is crazy, going wild, letting go_. So Sherlock plays as ordered, and oh, it is glorious.

_You don’t like being kissed. Please allow me to do so today. You have to pay for the dirty dream I had about you last night._

_Give me a kiss, my dearest love._

When he ends, there is a round of applause in 221a, in 221c and 221c, and together it sounds like home. 

One look shared with Molly, Sherlock changes it: Baker Street is home, _da capo_. 

* * *

  
_I love him._   
  


_I am in love with Sherlock Holmes._

_Fuck._

* * *

With the finale note, the end of the evening starts. It's well past 10:30 pm. The women clear up in 221b, along with Gregory in 221c. Which brings Mycroft to the pressing question of _him._

Gregory Lestrade has a voice of melting chocolate, and Mycroft has been on a diet since last Sunday. The situation is not inappropriate but highly indecent. And all because of Mycroft’s brain finally catching up and concluding that “Gregory” sounds rather, well, _intimate_. 

Obviously, Sherlock is scandalized, “Mycroft!” Even more, when his brother hints at meeting Greg. “You cannot meet him!”

“And why can I not, brother dear? It is only you and Dr Watson who have this arrangement. Gregory and I are under no such obligation. We can just open the door at the same time, cross the threshold and see each other.” 

Sherlock wants to roll his eyes and make a crude remark. Yet, he is no idiot: maybe John is unaware of his raging military kink, but everyone else in the building isn’t.

Mycroft only wants to tease his baby brother (surely not teasing Gregory or being teased by him).

“Maybe he’s ugly? Or he doesn’t like a man who is wearing tailored suits and carrying an umbrella? No, that would be reasonable. Maybe he doesn’t like you, Mycroft?”

“Don’t project your fears unto me, Sherlock. A word of advice: don’t get involved or leap of faith. This grey area? This isn’t you, Sherlock. You always went for the things you wanted or you couldn’t be bothered. Surely this John Watson cannot be that _special_.”

“Maybe he is…”

As his brother hasn’t intended to let this slip, Mycroft lets it uncomment. Instead, he turns to the two women who kept quiet in the background. Out of habit he curtly nods, knowing they will interpret it as “thank you” and “Goodnight”. Feeling a sudden wave of gratitude, he turns to the women. “Thank you. Have a nice evening. A cab will be here to drive you home later.”

Mycroft Holmes is out of the door before they can react. Secretly, he hopes they don’t, taking up Holmes' eccentrics in stride. 

Just like the man suddenly standing in front of him. “Gregory…”

* * *

It’s 11:02 pm when John’s smartphone blinks. The new text message reads, “Get him, tiger.” 

Her twin brother, tired as fuck and a bit tipsy, curses, “Harry. Shut it!”

  
  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You don’t like being kissed. Please allow me to do so today. You have to pay for the dirty dream I had about you last night."
> 
> "Give me a kiss, my dearest love."
> 
> All credits to Chopin. His personal letters to his male lover were too fitting to not include. It might be a little spoiler-y for what happens in chapter 10...^^


	10. Breakeven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John H. Watson had been The Player until he met The Pianist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome (back) to "If Baker Street Could Talk"!
> 
> Fair warning: chapter 10 is an emotional rollercoaster because walls that you've been built (around you) for years, don't come down easily. However, please: trust love all the way. I promise it's Angst With a Happy Ending (and the ending is near, only two chapters to go!).
> 
> Ade

There is the feeling of a kiss before Sherlock’s mind registers: _Oh_ , kiss. Then his mind goes blissfully offline, which is rather new but not altogether unwelcome, because kissing is fine, but kissing _John_ is more than fine.

John’s lips are a bit chapped, and there are some stubbles but the slight burn is not unpleasant per se, and John’s tongue is very clever, one might even say, wicked, and Sherlock has always loved to dance. 

So, they dance some more. 

Sherlock has known that human lips are a tactile sensory organ, and can be an erogenous zone when used in kissing and other acts of intimacy. Yet, it is thrilling to feel the more than 1 million nerve-endings in action. 

There is some humming, and it takes Sherlock a second to realise it's him who utters the noises of contentment. He wants to identify the notes, maybe analyse the pattern and draw a conclusion about his sound of love, but it is futile. 

Soon it is less humming and more whimpering; then the first moan slips Sherlock’s lips, followed by John’s swearing. They’re both vocal men.

Sherlock likes to get his hair pulled; it produces a slight lisp which is embarrassing but John kisses it better. It’s his sensitive scalp, and also the feeling of being petted. There is no mocking by John either.

A simple kiss on his forehead. 

...

Then Sherlock wakes up.

It’s a strange feeling, and for a second Sherlock ponders if he should go back to sleep. The beeping noise of his alarm clock prevents this anomaly. He gets out of bed, still, a bit disorientated. He cannot recall to have ever dreamt so vividly before, maybe as a child?

Half of his duvet clings to Sherlock’s body. It gets so tangled that he almost crashes to the floor.

It's extra soft cotton, hyper-allergic, probably as expensive as some people’s bed, and now it brings him down. Gone is the feeling of comfort, what used to be cosy now chafes his skin, irritating body and mind. 

Automatically, Sherlock tries to free himself, to focus and solve the puzzle, lastly, he screams internally “no panic” while being in distress.

“No!”

It’s the shout that comes from deep within, memories buried, that startles him so much that it switches something on, off, something. 

His breathing has sped up. He’s sweating profoundly, while his fingers, limbs, everything is cold. 

Approximately five minutes after the dream of kissing John as a fictional ending to last night's dinner, Sherlock huddles on the floor, mumbling to himself, “It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.”

It’s Mrs Hudson who frees him, having heard the fall. She hugs him tight, wrapping him up in a human blanket. 

Both don’t talk, she’s humming when she puts him into his favourite dressing gown. While she’s preparing breakfast, he’s in the loo. The bathroom door is slightly open; the kettle whistles loudly to give him some sense of privacy. In case of an emergency, she would rush to his side regardless.

Saving Sherlock Holmes hasn’t been in the contract but evidently, that came with moving into Baker Street.

The Pianist manages to begin his practice with minimal delay. The first piece is Mrs Hudson’s favourite song. It’s a thank-you-note, which makes her hum along in 221a. 

It’s well past midday when he stops. Still no reaction from John.

* * *

Before meeting Sherlock Holmes, John Watson has told himself that he craves the simple life: to grow up, to settle down, to pass on. 

It’s what his parents and his peers in his youth have told over and over (and sometimes beat into his thick skull because he had been too stubborn or too stupid or both).

It’s what he and his life should have been, shouldn’t it? It should have been the normal transformation from Johnny to John, from Mr to Dr Watson, from son to father to grandfather. 

John Watson wants to be a simple man, except he isn’t.

The truth is complex, ugly and real: John Watson has left home long before enlisting, been adrift long before getting shot, and has lived a lie before putting a ring on Mary’s finger. 

Yet, some days and most nights John paints the easier solution; make it simple: you went to war, and it has never ended.

This memo has blurred into his games, _The Patriot_ being a synonym for a mindset of an action hero. It’s an ego shooter game, and its engineer has been a perfectionist. 

John H. Watson had been The Player until he met The Pianist. 

Sure, John’s real life had been fucked up for years, but the alternative universe had been a hit series since the first launch. 

_The Haunting of the Baskervilles_ had been a particular success last year, and John’s been lucky that only Harry and himself are alive to witness their family misfortune turned into a ghost story. His twin’s only remark had been, “All ghost stories are gay stories”, and John had been glad that the text message had never surfaced on any social media platform. 

For seven years, nothing has ever happened to John. The real John, you see, was stuck in 221c while his alter ego went onto adventures. And then: Sherlock happened. 

First, it had been good because The Fights had reactive the soldier. Then, it had been even better with The Arrangement. At last, he had a real partner, of a sort.

Yet, all good things have to end eventually: in their case, seven days ago with The Dinner. It went too well, and in return, it had scared the shit out of John. To be turned on and terrified by deduction of pizza toppings in equal measure; seriously, how could that have been his life? Lastly, the realisation that John hasn’t been falling in love with his enigmatic neighbour but is in love with him. 

A love that Sherlock certainly won’t return, even if he ought to forgive John’s betrayal after looking him up on the internet and henceforth breaking the promise. Sherlock Holmes is married to his work, as he had said so himself during their first meeting. 

What could a washed-up ex-soldier offer to an acclaimed pianist? As far as John sees it he is reduced to being an applauding audience forever, and he will play the part willingly when his heart isn’t hurting that much anymore. Maybe he could act as a muse to Sherlock, even that concept is laughable: who wants someone like John Watson as a muse?

The real John Watson is terribly human, so he does what most humans do: he ignores his problem. 

Each evening, John promises to himself that tomorrow’s going to be different, and each dawn he breaks his vows. First, it’s been a weekend, then five days, and now, it’s been almost a week since he has last talked to Sherlock. 

Now, when John Watson wakes up, he isn’t calling “Good morning, Sherlock” anymore. There’s no round of applause when he is listening to Sherlock’s piano practice. At lunch, he doesn’t offer to share it. In the evening, there’s no invitation to watch along. There’s no more talking through the walls.

Baker Street got quieter, and John’s to blame but cannot change it either.

Once again, John Watson is too late. 

Therefore, he doesn’t need Mrs Hudson’s, “Talk to him, John” on Monday. That afternoon John is programming for hours, developing a backstory for his hero’s partner. It’s one of his wildest dreams, and it starts and ends with a ship called _Gloria Scott_. 

The partner’s name is unknown as he refers to himself simply as Scott, and this story tells how he picked his name and rebuilt himself out of a shipwreck. Scott is so handsome and he is tall as hell, and the hero is so bad that it won’t end well, and the hero, as well as his partner, see it from the beginning. 

So, you see, John Watson is too busy to talk to Sherlock Holmes as he must program Scott’s backstory. This is certainly not a flimsy excuse, it’s an explanation.

After all, _The Scarlet Eyes_ will be released next winter, on January 29th to be precise. The result is fake as fuck but future players will call it a cult classic. 

The general layout for _The Scarlet Eyes_ is finished on Monday: it all begins and ends with _Gloria Scott_ , a ship owned by a rich tradesman. His import-export-business is a bit shady but successful. The lucky bastard has a son who’ll inherit everything someday soon. The heir’s name is Victor, but his life is no victory march. 

It’s all in the names: Scott and Gloria Scott, Victor and victory. His boss praises him during a short telephone call on Tuesday, “Keep up the good work, Watson.” So what is The Player supposed to do than to carry on with another twist on bury-your-gay-guys? Therefore, it’s logical that he ignores Mrs Hudson’s: “John Watson, just talk to him”, when she brings in some leftovers from dinner. It’s meatballs and they taste ashen.

John bets that these memories of Victor and Scott, tangled up all night, are going to follow him forever. It burns the heart out of John, and this love takes Scott down. The Game is up, for all of them who dare to love men. 

That night John pours out one for James Sholto, the best and wisest man he’s ever known, who’s sacrifice might have brought Johnny home from Afghanistan but at too high costs. There are no ghosts in this world, except those we make ourselves. It’s around midnight when Major Sholto’s last command saves John Watson once more: “Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.” 

On Wednesday, sore and broken, tired and drunk, John wants to scream instead he lets Victor’s father voice the curse: “Leave my town, go into exile now.” John isn’t the man crying nor the other man dying. He simply puts his love into creating the scene and letting the lover bleed out in the desert. Mrs Hudson’s today’s comment is: “John Watson, I didn’t believe you to be a coward.” 

On Thursday, John closes the door with a bang before she can finish, “Listen to me, young man…” Seconds later, something crashes in 221b. John wants to inquire immediately, instincts kicking in, but Mrs Hudson beats him to it, “It’s the painting.” 

It’s Friday when he returns to the day of the fall: Scott is playing the violin. The sun is high on the sky, no clouds to be seen. The sea shanty sounds like a love song. It’s also Friday when a note gets slipped under his door, reading “He misses you.”

* * *

Sherlock is weak. He hears the TV from next door, and one look at the calendar confirms it: Greg has to be over at 221a, which means that it's been almost a week since The Dinner.

The Dinner with Friends and Family which went well until it didn't. Sherlock wants to blame the flirting of his brother with John's best friend but doesn't believe it to be the reason; neither Molly and her fiancéé, nor Mrs Hudson. 

Surely, it's his fault, so he wants to fix it but his mind cannot work properly anymore. So all he's left with is composing; his piano once more his constant companion. For a week he has been The Pianist, and Sherlock hates it.

Instead of adding new parts for _If Baker Street Could Talk_ , he wants to talk with John again. Baker Street has been too quiet. Silence isn't bliss, it's hateful, and Sherlock wants to scream. He wants to... Sherlock doesn't know what he wants.

If Mycroft saw him now, he would never hear the end of it: _Oh, Sherlock, caring is no advantage_ , and his favourite line, _All hearts will be broken_. Mock-sternly, wearing an ugly smile, oh how his big brother repels him. 

Sherlock knows that it’s not real. It’s just a flicker of his imagination because the Mycroft Sherlock saw seven days ago, slowly falling in love with a stranger, that had been real. 

Yet, Sherlock replays older memories in his mind. Overshadowing his life from day one: Sherlock Holmes had been Mycroft Holmes' life project, his biggest achievement. Mycroft has made him, all of him is shaped by him. Sherlock Holmes ought to be a pianist, so he became The Pianist. And when Sherlock Holmes will win the scholarship next week, Mycroft will be proud. Or, so his brother hopes. 

Because slowly there's doubt creeping into Sherlock Holmes’ thoughts: not that he cannot win the prize, but for his motivation. 

He doesn't care for Mycroft's approval, he wishes for John's applause and so much more.

Somehow Sherlock ends up in the shower. He doesn’t need a shower per se, and yet, he craves it. His skin itches, his stomach is coiled into a knot, his scalp tickles. It’s unpleasant, he wants to scream. And the water crashing down will muffle it.

First, he stands almost motionless under the spray. His curls are plastered on his forehead, he doesn’t care. His shoulders are hunched. He looks at his toes, he needs to cut his nails soon. If he has a cock, he ignores it.

The water is hot, but when the old boiler has reached its limit, the water turns cold.

His fingers are getting wrinkles. If he has lips, they are turning blue soon. He counts the tiles, spots mould in one corner. The light bulb of the lamp, hanging over the mirror, is flickering. Running out of time, Sherlock can understand the feeling.

It’s ten minutes or an hour later when he turns off the water.

He’s shivering. With extra pressure he dries himself off, his skin getting red. Only when it’s beyond pain, almost chafing himself, he lets it go. He hates to blow dry his curls, which is why he endures it today and forces himself to stand still for another minute.

It’s an old, ratty pyjama that covers his body tonight.

Sherlock’s last conscious thought is: _I would have forgiven John everything_.

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are welcome, as much as comments. 
> 
> When you like, tell me about your year(s) in fandom. Why do you end up here, what made you stay? Was "A Study in Pink" the very first episode you saw or something else altogether? Let's talk about about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and this very special fandom.
> 
> Ade


End file.
